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IVAN   TURGENIEFF 


Volume  XII 


FIRST   LOVElSiAND 
OTHER   STORIES  isi  lei 


THE  NOVELS  AND  STORIES  OF 
IVAN    TURGENIEFF 


FIRST  LOVE  •»  AND 
OTHER  STORIES  ♦  4. 


TRANSLATED    FROM    THE    RUSSIAN    BY 
ISABEL  F.  HAPGOOD 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1904 


Copyright,. 1904,  by 
Charles   Scribner's   Sons 


PREFACE 

The  novel  "  First  Love  "  was  TurgenieiF's  fa- 
vourite work,  as  he  more  than  once  confessed. 
What  the  author  prized  in  this  purely  intimate 
but  beautifully  finished  story  was  its  fidelity  to 
actuality;  that  is  to  say,  he  prized  the  personal 
recollections  of  early  youth.  In  that  respect  this 
story  has  a  prominent  interest  for  readers,  since 
it  narrates — according  to  the  testimony  of  the 
author — an  actual  fact  in  his  life,  and  that  with- 
out the  slightest  artificial  colouring.^  To  what 
degree  TurgeniefF's  testimony  is  credible,  re- 
marks one  critic,  is  a  question  which  can  be  rightly 
decided  only  by  biographical  documents.  Fa- 
mous writers  are  particularly  inclined  by  nature 
to  romantic  coquetry  with  their  own  personali- 
ties— a  characteristic  which  was,  apparently,  to 
some  extent,  inherent  in  TurgeniefF,  despite  his 
renowned  modesty.  Famous  writers  are  fond 
of  leading  their  contemporaries — and  still  more 
posterity— astray  with  regard  to  the  reflection 
of  intimate  details  of  their  lives  in  their  artistic 

*  The  well-known  poet  Y^koiF  Petrovitch  Polonsky  is  the  authority 
for  this  statement,  in  his  "  Recollections  of  Turg^nieff,"  printed  in 
the  early  numbers  of  the  Niva  for  1884. — Tbanslatok. 


PREFACE 

works.  .  .  .  At  any  rate,  Russian  artistic  pro- 
ductions, in  which  the  authors  have  endeavoured 
to  set  forth  biographical  details,  must  be  scruti- 
nised with  extreme  cautiousness.  The  author, 
while  imagining  that  he  is  thoroughly  sincere, 
may  involuntarily  indulge  in  inventions  con- 
cerning himself.  But  in  its  literary  aspect  this 
story  indubitably  is  one  of  TurgeniefF's  master- 
pieces, and  in  it  the  original  character  of  its  chief 
heroine.  Princess  Zinaida  Zasyekin,  is  depicted 
with  remarkable  clearness  and  charm.  .  .  .  The 
artist  threw  off  this  light  and  elegant  little  in- 
timate study  by  way  of  relaxation  after  "  On 
the  Eve,"  a  romance  dealing  with  a  broad  social 
problem,  and  by  way  of  preparation  for  a  new 
work,  still  more  serious  in  intention,  "  Fathers 
and  Children." 

*'  First  Love "  does  not  contain  any  social 
t5rpes,  does  not  deal  with  any  social  problems.  It 
consists  wholly,  so  to  speak,  of  poetry.  The 
young  Princess  is  one  of  the  author's  most  poet- 
ical creations.  Her  character  is  depicted  with 
marvellous  grace  and  elegance  in  the  little  scenes 
which  exert  so  great  an  influence  over  her  six- 
teen-year-old admirer.  In  this  young  man's 
father  Turgenieff  sketched  his  own  father,  who 
did  not  love  his  wife,  and  whose  domestic  rela- 
tions were  identical  with  those  here  described. 
His  wife  was  considerably  younger  than  he,  and 
he  had  married  her  for  her  money.    One  curious 

vi 


PREFACE 

detail  concerns  the  Pole,  Malevsky.  This  "  du- 
bious Count,  swindler,  and,  in  general,  dirty  lit- 
tle gentleman,"  as  one  critic  expresses  it,  "  drawn 
with  great  artistic  vivacity,  and  with  unconcealed 
scorn,  is  a  very  typical  figure ;  and  such  repulsive 
Poles  were  formerly  encountered  in  great  num- 
bers in  Holy  Russia, — and  are  still  to  be  met  with. 
In  this  character  are  concentrated  the  unpleasant 
characteristics  of  the  Polish  national  character: 
spiritual  deceitfulness,  double-facedness,  insig- 
nificance, courtliness,  and  a  tendency  to  revolting 
intrigue." 

In  "  A  Correspondence  "  we  again  encounter 
one  of  TurgeniefF's  favourite  types,  the  super- 
fluous man.  But  the  author  has  taken  a  stride 
in  advance  with  Alexyei  Petrovitch.  In  this  case 
the  superfluous  man  does  not  blame  either  the  in- 
sipidity of  life,  or  society,  or  people  alone,— he 
blames  himself.  In  Marya  Alexandrovna's 
friend  and  correspondent  we  behold  a  good  and 
worthy  man,  cultured  in  both  mind  and  heart, — 
but,  like  many  others  among  Turgeniefl"s  heroes, 
suflFering,  so  to  speak,  from  a  malady  of  the  will. 
One  critic  declares  that  this  story  is  almost  iden- 
tical, on  its  exterior,  with  "  Riidin."  One  of  the 
Russian  representatives  of  "  the  loftiest  aspira- 
tions "  enters  into  correspondence  with  a  young 
girl  who,  as  people  were  fond  of  expressing  it 
at  that  period,  belonged  among  the  "  choice  na- 
tures."    Disillusioned  with  life,  she  is  ready  to 

vii 


PREFACE 

submit  to  the  conditions  which  encompass  her. 
Under  the  influence  of  an  ill-defined  impulse  of 
affection  and  sympathy  toward  this  young  girl, 
the  hero  begins  to  inflate  her  sense  of  being  an 
elect  person,  and  to  stir  up  her  energy  to  contend 
with  the  humdrum  circle  in  which  she  dwells. 
Just  at  the  moment  when  he  has  awakened  her 
courage  and  her  hope  that  he  will  join  her  in 
this  conflict,  he  stumbles  and  falls  himself,  in  the 
most  pusillanimous  manner.     His  will  is  ailing. 

Another  point  worth  noting  is  that  in  the 
heroine's  third  letter  the  note  of  the  so-called 
"  woman's  question  "  is  sounded  with  remarkable 
feeling  and  force. 

The  explanation  vouchsafed  by  one  critic  for 
the  prevalence  of  weak  men  in  TurgeniefF's  ro- 
mances, in  connection  with  "  A  Correspondence," 
is  that  the  author  did  not  depict  strong  natures 
simply  because  he  did  not  find  suitable  material 
for  that  purpose  in  the  circle  which  surrounded 
him.  He  was  determined  to  draw  the  best  men 
of  his  time  as  he  found  them — that  is  to  say,  men 
addicted  to  self -conviction,  fiery  in  language,  but 
weak  in  resolution. 

"  The  Region  of  Dead  Calm "  was  written 
while  Turgenieff  was  forbidden  to  leave  his  es- 
tate at  Spasskoe-Lutovinovo,  after  his  release 
from  the  imprisonment  wherewith  he  was  pun- 
ished for  having  published  in  Moscow  a  eulogy 
of  Gogol  which  the  St.  Petersburg  censor  had 

viii 


PREFACE 

prohibited.  His  idea  that  all  men  are  divided 
into  two  categories  which,  respectively,  possess 
more  or  less  of  the  characteristics  of  Hamlet  and 
of  Don  Quixote,  is  illustrated  again  in  this  story 
by  VeretyefF,  who  ruins  his  talents  and  his  life 
with  hquor. 

On  the  other  hand,  as  one  critic  says,  "  posi- 
tively, in  the  whole  of  Russian  literature,  we  do 
not  meet  elsewhere  such  a  grand,  massive,  severe, 
and  somewhat  coarse  woman  as  Marya  Pav- 
lovna."  Masha  is  the  first  woman  in  Russian 
literature  to  look  upon  man  as  a  worker,  and 
to  treat  him  with  intelligent  exaction.  Another 
strange  characteristic  in  a  young  lady  of  the  re- 
mote country  districts  is  Masha's  dislike  for 
"  sweet  "  poetry.  Her  suicide  is  not  a  proof  that 
her  character  was  weak.  And  of  the  two  weak 
men  in  the  story,  AstakhoiF  is  the  weaker,  the 
more  colourless,  in  every  way— as  to  character, 
not  as  to  the  author's  portraiture. 

The  pictures  of  country  life  among  the  landed 
gentry  are  drawn  with  great  charm  and  delicate 
humour. 

That  TurgeniefF  was  affected,  and  very  sensi- 
bly so,  by  the  lack  of  comprehension  evinced  by 
both  critics  and  readers  toward  his  great  work 
"  Fathers  and  Children,"  is  evident,  in  part,  from 
the  characteristic  lyrical  fragment,  "It  is 
Enough."  It  is  filled  with  mournful  pessimism 
of  a  romantic  sort,  which  strongly  recalls  the  pes- 

ix 


PREFACE 

simism  of  Leopardi.  A  certain  element  of  comedy- 
is  imparted  to  this  sentimental  outpouring  by  the 
fact  that  the  author  fancied  ( and,  probably,  with 
entire  sincerity)    that  he  bore  a  strong  resem- 
blance in  his  convictions  to  Bazaroff,  his  creation. 
Dostoievsky   depicted   this   comic   element   very 
caustically,  in  the  most  malicious  of  parodies  on 
TurgeniefF  in  general  and  on  "  It  is  Enough  " 
and  "  Phantoms  "  in  particular.     This  parody 
is  contained  in  his  romance  "  Devils,"  and  consti- 
tutes one  of  the  most  venomous  pages  in  that  de- 
cidedly venomous  romance.    The  following  is  an 
excerpt:  "  In  the  meantime,  the  mist  swirled  and 
swirled,  and  swirled  round  and  round  until  it 
bore  more  resemblance  to  a  million  pillows  than 
to  mist.    And  suddenly  everything  vanishes,  and 
a  great  Genius  crosses  the  Volga  in  winter,  dur- 
ing a  thaw.     Two  and  a  half  pages  about  this 
transit.    But,  notwithstanding,  he  tumbles  into  a 
hole  in  the  ice.     The  Genius  goes  to  the  bottom. 
Do  you  think  he  drowns?    Not  a  bit  of  it!    All 
this  is  for  the  sake,  after  he  is  completely  foun- 
dered and  is  beginning  to  choke,  of  making  a 
block  of  ice,  a  tiny  block,  about  the  size  of  a  pea, 
but  clear  and  transparent,  float  past  him  '  like 
a  frozen  tear  ' ;  and  on  that  block  of  ice  Ger- 
many, or,  to  put  it  more  accurately,  the  sky  of 
Germany,  is  reflected;  and  by  the  rainbow  play 
of  that  reflection  it  reminds  him  of  the  tear  which 
—dost  thou  remember?— trickled  from  thine  eyes 


PREFACE 

when  we  sat  under  the  emerald  tree,  and  thou 
didst  joyfully  exclaim:  'There  is  no  crime!'— 
'  Yes  I '  said  I  through  my  tears ;  '  but  if  that  is 
so,  then  assuredly  there  are  no  righteous  men 
either.'  We  fell  to  sobbing  and  parted  forever." 
"  The  Dog  "  was  first  published  in  the  feuille- 
ton  of  the  Petersburg  News,  No.  85,  1865.  It 
is  generally  admitted  to  be  one  of  TurgeniefF's 
weak  and  unsuccessful  works.  But  one  critic 
describes  how  enthralling  it  was  when  the  author 
narrated  it  (in  advance  of  publication)  to  a 
group  of  friends  in  Moscow,  and  what  a  deep  im- 
pression it  made  upon  them.  "  When  I  read  it 
afterward  in  print,"  he  says,  "  it  seemed  to  me 
a  pale  copy  of  Turgenieff's  verbal  narration. 
One  was  impressed  with  the  idea  that,  when  he  sat 
down  to  write  it,  he  was  overcome  with  apprehen- 
sion lest  his  readers  and  critics  should  suppose 
that  he  believed  in  this  mysterious  adventure. 
But  conviction  on  the  part  of  the  author— in  ap- 
pearance at  least— is  precisely  what  is  required 
in  such  cases.  He  told  the  tale  with  enthusiasm, 
and  even  turned  pale,  and  his  face  assumed  a  cast 
of  fear  at  the  dramatic  points."  The  critic  adds 
that  he  could  not  get  to  sleep  for  hours  afterward. 

I.  F.  H. 


XI 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FIRST   LOVE 1 

A   CORRESPONDENCE 113 

THE    REGION   OF  DEAD   CALM 169 

IT    IS   ENOUGH 301 

THE    DOG 323 


FIRST  LOVE 

(I860) 


FIRST  LOVE 

THE  guests  had  long  since  departed.  The 
clock  had  struck  half -past  twelve.  There 
remained  in  the  room  only  the  host,  Sergyei  Niko- 
laevitch,  and  Vladimir  Petrovitch. 

The  host  rang  and  ordered  the  remains  of  the 
supper  to  be  removed. — "  So  then,  the  matter  is 
settled," — he  said,  ensconcing  himself  more 
deeply  in  his  arm-chair,  and  lighting  a  cigar: — 
"  each  of  us  is  to  narrate  the  history  of  his  first 
love.    'T  is  your  turn,  Sergyei  Nikolaevitch." 

Sergyei  Nikolaevitch,  a  rather  corpulent  man, 
v^^ith  a  plump,  fair-skinned  face,  first  looked  at  the 
host,  then  raised  his  eyes  to  the  ceiling. — "  I  had 
no  first  love," — he  began  at  last: — "  I  began 
straight  off  with  the  second." 

"How  was  that?" 

"  Very  simply.  I  was  eighteen  years  of  age 
when,  for  the  first  time,  I  dangled  after  a  very 
charming  young  lady ;  but  I  courted  her  as  though 
it  were  no  new  thing  to  me:  exactly  as  I  courted 
others  afterward.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  fell  in  love, 
for  the  first  and  last  time,  at  the  age  of  six,  with 
my  nurse ;— but  that  is  a  very  long  time  ago.  The 
details  of  our  relations  have  been  erased  from  my 

3 


FIRST  LOVE 

memory;  but  even  if  I  remembered  them,  who 
would  be  interested  in  them?  " 

"  Then  what  are  we  to  do?  " — began  the  host. 
— "  There  was  nothing  very  starthng  about  my 
first  love  either ;  I  never  fell  in  love  with  any  one 
before  Anna  Ivanovna,  now  my  wife ;  and  every- 
thing ran  as  though  on  oil  with  us;  our  fathers 
made  up  the  match,  we  very  promptly  fell  in  love 
with  each  other,  and  entered  the  bonds  of  matri- 
mony without  delay.  My  story  can  be  told  in  two 
words.  I  must  confess,  gentlemen,  that  in  rais- 
ing the  question  of  first  love,  I  set  my  hopes  on 
you,  I  will  not  say  old,  but  yet  no  longer  young 
bachelors.  Will  not  you  divert  us  with  some- 
thing, Vladimir  Petrovitch? " 

"  My  first  love  belongs,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  not 
altogether  to  the  ordinary  category," — replied, 
with  a  slight  hesitation,  Vladimir  Petrovitch,  a 
man  of  forty,  whose  black  hair  was  sprinkled  with 
grey. 

"Ah!" — said  the  host  and  Sergyei  Nikolae- 
vitch  in  one  breath. — "  So  much  the  better.  .  .  . 
Tell  us." 

"  As  you  like  .  .  .  .  or  no:  I  will  not  narrate; 
I  am  no  great  hand  at  telling  a  story ;  it  turns  out 
dry  and  short,  or  long-drawn-out  and  artificial. 
But  if  you  will  permit  me,  I  will  write  down  all 
that  I  remember  in  a  note-book,  and  will  read  it 
aloud  to  you." 

At  first  the  friends  would  not  consent,  but 

4 


FIRST  LOVE 

Vladimir  Petrovitch  insisted  on  having  his  own 
way.     A    fortnight    later   they    came    together 
again,  and  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  kept  his  promise. 
This  is  what  his  note-book  contained. 


I  WAS  sixteen  years  old  at  the  time.  The  affair 
took  place  in  the  summer  of  1833. 

I  was  living  in  Moscow,  in  my  parents'  house. 
They  had  hired  a  villa  near  the  Kaluga  barrier, 
opposite  the  Neskiitchny  Park.^ — I  was  prepar- 
ing for  the  university,  but  was  working  very  little 
and  was  not  in  a  hurry. 

No  one  restricted  my  freedom.  I  had  done 
whatever  I  pleased  ever  since  I  had  parted  with 
my  last  French  governor,  who  was  utterly  unable 
to  reconcile  himself  to  the  thought  that  he  had 
fallen  "  like  a  bomb  "  {comme  une  homhe)  into 
Russia,  and  with  a  stubborn  expression  on  his 
face,  wallowed  in  bed  for  whole  days  at  a  time. 
My  father  treated  me  in  an  indifferently-affec- 
tionate way;  my  mother  paid  hardly  any  atten- 
tion to  me,  although  she  had  no  children  except 
me :  other  cares  engrossed  her.  My  father,  still  a 
young  man  and  very  handsome,  had  married  her 

1  The  finest  of  the  pubUc  parks  in  Moscow,  situated  near  the  fa- 
mous Sparrow  Hills,  is  called  "Neskiitchny  "  —  "  Not  Tiresome,"  gen- 
erally rendered  "Sans  Souci."  It  contains  an  imperial  residence, 
the  Alexander  Palace,  used  as  an  official  summer  home  by  the  Gov- 
ernor-General of  Moscow.— Teanslatob. 


FIRST  LOVE 

from  calculation ;  she  was  ten  years  older  than  he. 
My  mother  led  a  melancholy  life:  she  was  inces- 
santly in  a  state  of  agitation,  jealousy,  and  wrath 
— but  not  in  the  presence  of  my  father;  she  was 
very  much  afraid  of  him,  and  he  maintained  a 
stern,  cold,  and  distant  manner.  .  .  I  have  never 
seen  a  man  more  exquisitely  calm,  self-confident, 
and  self -controlled. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  first  weeks  I  spent  at 
the  villa.  The  weather  was  magnificent;  we  had 
left  town  the  ninth  of  May,  on  St.  Nicholas's  day. 
I  rambled, — sometimes  in  the  garden  of  our  villa, 
sometimes  in  Neskutchny  Park,  sometimes  be- 
yond the  city  barriers ;  I  took  with  me  some  book 
or  other,— a  course  of  KaidanofF,— but  rarely 
opened  it,  and  chiefly  recited  aloud  poems,  of 
which  I  knew  a  great  many  by  heart.  The  blood 
was  fermenting  in  me,  and  my  heart  was  aching 
—so  sweetly  and  absurdly;  I  was  always  waiting 
for  something,  shrinking  at  something,  and  won- 
dering at  everything,  and  was  all  ready  for  any- 
thing at  a  moment's  notice.  My  fancy  was  be- 
ginning to  play,  and  hovered  swiftly  ever  around 
the  selfsame  image,  as  martins  hover  round  a 
belfry  at  sunset.  But  even  athwart  my  tears 
and  athwart  the  melancholy,  inspired  now  by  a 
melodious  verse,  now  by  the  beauty  of  the  even- 
ing, there  peered  forth,  like  grass  in  springtime, 
the  joyous  sensation  of  young,  bubbling  life. 

I  had  a  saddle-horse ;  I  was  in  the  habit  of  sad- 


FIRST  LOVE 

dling  it  myself,  and  when  I  rode  off  alone  as  far 
as  possible,  in  some  direction,  launching  out  at  a 
gallop  and  fancying  myself  a  knight  at  a  tourney 
— how  blithely  the  wind  whistled  in  my  ears ! — Or, 
turning  my  face  skyward,  I  welcomed  its  beam- 
ing light  and  azure  into  my  open  soul. 

I  remember,  at  that  time,  the  image  of  woman, 
the  phantom  of  woman's  love,  almost  never  en- 
tered my  mind  in  clearly -defined  outlines;  but  in 
everything  I  thought,  in  everything  I  felt,  there 
lay  hidden  the  half -conscious,  shamefaced  pre- 
sentiment of  something  new,  inexpressibly  sweet, 
feminine  .... 

This  presentiment,  this  expectation  permeated 
my  whole  being ;  I  breathed  it,  it  coursed  through 
my  veins  in  every  drop  of  blood  ....  it  was 
fated  to  be  speedily  realised. 

Our  villa  consisted  of  a  wooden  manor-house 
with  columns,  and  two  tiny  outlying  wings ;  in  the 
wing  to  the  left  a  tiny  factory  of  cheap  wall- 
papers was  installed.  .  .  .  More  than  once  I 
went  thither  to  watch  how  half  a  score  of  gaunt, 
dishevelled  young  fellows  in  dirty  smocks  and 
with  tipsy  faces  were  incessantly  galloping  about 
at  the  wooden  levers  which  jammed  down  the 
square  blocks  of  the  press,  and  in  that  manner,  by 
the  weight  of  their  puny  bodies,  printed  the  mot- 
ley-hued  patterns  of  the  wall-papers.  The  wing 
on  the  right  stood  empty  and  was  for  rent.  One 
day— three  weeks  after  the  ninth  of  May— the 

7 


FIRST  LOVE 

shutters  on  the  windows  of  this  wing  were  opened, 
and  women's  faces  made  their  appearance  in 
them ;  some  family  or  other  had  moved  into  it.  I 
remember  how,  that  same  day  at  dinner,  my 
mother  inquired  of  the  butler  who  our  new  neigh- 
bours were,  and  on  hearing  the  name  of  Princess 
Zasyekin,  said  at  first,  not  without  some  respect: 
— "  Ah!  a  Princess  "  .  .  .  .  and  then  she  added:— 
"  She  must  be  some  poor  person!  " 

"  They  came  in  three  hired  carriages,  ma'am," 
— remarked  the  butler,  as  he  respectfully  pre- 
sented a  dish.  "  They  have  no  carriage  of  their 
own,  ma'am,  and  their  furniture  is  of  the  very 
plainest  sort." 

"  Yes,"— returned  my  mother,—"  and  never- 
theless, it  is  better  so." 

My  father  shot  a  cold  glance  at  her;  she  sub- 
sided into  silence. 

As  a  matter  of  fact.  Princess  Zasyekin  could 
not  be  a  wealthy  woman:  the  wing  she  had  hired 
was  so  old  and  tiny  and  low-roofed  that  people 
in  the  least  well-to-do  would  not  have  been  will- 
ing to  inhabit  it. — However,  I  let  this  go  in  at  one 
ear  and  out  at  the  other.  The  princely  title  had 
little  effect  on  me:  I  had  recently  been  reading 
Schiller's  "  The  Brigands." 


8 


FIRST  LOVE 


II 


I  HAD  a  habit  of  prowling  about  our  garden  every 
evening,  gun  in  hand,  and  standing  guard  against 
the  crows. — I  had  long  cherished  a  hatred  for 
those  wary,  rapacious  and  crafty  birds.  On  the 
day  of  which  I  have  been  speaking,  I  went  into 
the  garden  as  usual,  and,  after  having  fruitlessly 
made  the  round  of  all  the  alleys  (the  crows  recog- 
nised me  from  afar,  and  merely  cawed  spasmodi- 
cally at  a  distance) ,  I  accidentally  approached  the 
low  fence  which  separated  our  territory  from  the 
narrow  strip  of  garden  extending  behind  the 
right-hand  wing  and  appertaining  to  it.  I  was 
walking  along  with  drooping  head.  Suddenly  I 
heard  voices:  I  glanced  over  the  fence — and  was 

petrified A  strange  spectacle  presented 

itself  to  me. 

A  few  paces  distant  from  me,  on  a  grass-plot 
between  green  raspberry-bushes,  stood  a  tall, 
graceful  young  girl,  in  a  striped,  pink  frock  and 
with  a  white  kerchief  on  her  head;  around  her 
pressed  four  young  men,  and  she  was  tapping 
them  in  turn  on  the  brow  with  those  small  grey 
flowers,  the  name  of  which  I  do  not  know,  but 
which  are  familiar  to  children ;  these  little  flowers 
form  tiny  sacs,  and  burst  with  a  pop  when  they 
are  struck  against  anything  hard.  The  young 
men  ofl*ered  their  foreheads  to  her  so  willingly, 

9 


FIRST  LOVE 

and  in  the  girl's  movements  (I  saw  her  form  in 
profile)  there  was  something  so  bewitching,  ca- 
ressing, mocking,  and  charming,  that  I  almost 
cried  aloud  in  wonder  and  pleasure ;  and  I  believe 
I  would  have  given  everything  in  the  world  if 
those  lovely  little  fingers  had  only  consented  to 
tap  me  on  the  brow.  My  gun  slid  down  on  the 
grass,  I  forgot  everything,  I  devoured  with  my 
eyes  that  slender  waist,  and  the  neck  and  the  beau- 
tiful arms,  and  the  slightly  ruffled  fair  hair,  the 
intelligent  eyes  and  those  lashes,  and  the  delicate 
cheek  beneath  them.  .  .  . 

"Young  man,  hey  there,  young  man!"— 
suddenly  spoke  up  a  voice  near  me: — "Is  it 
permissible  to  stare  like  that  at  strange  young 
ladies?" 

I  trembled  all  over,  I  was  stupefied Be- 
side me,  on  the  other  side  of  the  fence,  stood  a  man 
with  closely-clipped  black  hair,  gazing  ironically 
at  me.  At  that  same  moment,  the  young  girl 
turned  toward  me.  ...  I  beheld  huge  grey  eyes 
in  a  mobile,  animated  face — and  this  whole  face 
suddenly  began  to  quiver,  and  to  laugh,  and  the 
white  teeth  gleamed  from  it,  the  brows  elevated 
themselves  in  an  amusing  way.  ...  I  flushed, 
picked  up  my  gun  from  the  ground,  and,  pursued 
by  ringing  but  not  malicious  laughter,  I  ran  to 
my  own  room,  flung  myself  on  the  bed,  and  cov- 
ered my  face  with  my  hands.  My  heart  was 
fairly   leaping    within   me;    I    felt    very    much 

10 


FIRST  LOVE 

ashamed  and  very  merry:  I  experienced  an  un- 
precedented emotion. 

After  I  had  rested  awhile,  I  brushed  my  hair, 
made  myself  neat  and  went  down-stairs  to  tea. 
The  image  of  the  young  girl  floated  in  front  of 
me ;  my  heart  had  ceased  to  leap,  but  ached  in  an 
agreeable  sort  of  way. 

"  What  ails  thee?  "—my  father  suddenly  asked 
me: — "  hast  thou  killed  a  crow?  " 

I  was  on  the  point  of  telling  him  all,  but  re- 
frained and  only  smiled  to  myself.  As  I  was  pre- 
paring for  bed,  I  whirled  round  thrice  on  one 
foot,  I  know  not  why,  pomaded  my  hair,  got  into 
bed  and  slept  all  night  like  a  dead  man.  Toward 
morning  I  awoke  for  a  moment,  raised  my  head, 
cast  a  glance  of  rapture  around  me — and  fell 
asleep  again. 

Ill 

"  How  am  I  to  get  acquainted  with  them?  "  was 
my  first  thought,  as  soon  as  I  awoke  in  the  morn- 
ing. I  went  out  into  the  garden  before  tea,  but 
did  not  approach  too  close  to  the  fence,  and  saw 
no  one.  After  tea  I  walked  several  times  up  and 
down  the  street  in  front  of  the  villa,  and  cast  a 
distant  glance  at  the  windows.  ...  I  thought  I 
descried  her  face  behind  the  curtains,  and  re- 
treated with  all  possible  despatch.  "  But  I  must 
get  acquainted," — I  thought,  as  I  walked  with  ir- 

11 


FIRST  LOVE 

regular  strides  up  and  down  the  sandy  stretch 
which  extends  in  front  of  the  Neskiitchny  Park 
.  .  .  .  "  but  how?  that  is  the  question."  I  re- 
called the  most  trifling  incidents  of  the  meeting 
on  the  previous  evening;  for  some  reason,  her 
manner  of  laughing  at  me  presented  itself  to  me 
with  particular  clearness,  .  .  .  But  while  I  was 
fretting  thus  and  constructing  various  plans,  Fate 
was  already  providing  for  me. 

During  my  absence,  my  mother  had  received  a 
letter  from  her  new  neighbour  on  grey  paper 
sealed  with  brown  wax,  such  as  is  used  only  on 
postal  notices,  and  on  the  corks  of  cheap  wine. 
In  this  letter,  written  in  illiterate  language,  and 
with  a  slovenly  chirography,  the  Princess  re- 
quested my  mother  to  grant  her  her  protection: 
my  mother,  according  to  the  Princess's  words,  was 
well  acquainted  with  the  prominent  people  on 
whom  the  fortune  of  herself  and  her  children  de- 
pended, as  she  had  some  extremely  important 
law-suits:  "I  apeal  tyou," — she  wrote, — "as  a 
knoble  woman  to  a  knoble  woman,  and  moarover, 
it  is  agriable  to  me  to  makeus  of  this  oportunity." 
In  conclusion,  she  asked  permission  of  my  mother 
to  call  upon  her.  I  found  my  mother  in  an  un- 
pleasant frame  of  mind:  my  father  was  not  at 
home,  and  she  had  no  one  with  whom  to  take 
counsel.  It  was  impossible  not  to  reply  to  a 
"  knoble  woman,"  and  to  a  Princess  into  the  bar- 
gain; but  how  to  reply  perplexed  my  mother. 

12 


FIRST  LOVE 

It  seemed  to  her  ill-judged  to  write  a  note 
in  French,  and  my  mother  was  not  strong  in  Rus- 
sian orthography  herself— and  was  aware  of  the 
fact— and  did  not  wish  to  compromise  herself. 
She  was  delighted  at  my  arrival,  and  immediately 
ordered  me  to  go  to  the  Princess  and  explain  to 
her  verbally  that  my  mother  was  always  ready, 
to  the  extent  of  her  ability,  to  be  of  service  to  Her 
Radiance,^  and  begged  that  she  would  call  upon 
her  about  one  o'clock. 

This  unexpectedly  swift  fulfilment  of  my  se- 
cret wishes  both  delighted  and  frightened  me ;  but 
I  did  not  betray  the  emotion  which  held  posses- 
sion of  me,  and  preliminarily  betook  myself  to 
my  room  for  the  purpose  of  donning  a  new  neck- 
cloth and  coat ;  at  home  I  went  about  in  a  round- 
jacket  and  turn-over  collars,  although  I  detested 
them  greatly. 

IV 

In  the  cramped  and  dirty  anteroom  of  the  wing, 
which  I  entered  with  an  involuntary  trembling  of 
my  whole  body,  I  was  received  by  a  grey-haired 
old  serving-man  with  a  face  the  hue  of  dark  cop- 
per, pig-like,  surly  little  eyes,  and  such  deep  wrin- 
kles on  his  forehead  as  I  had  never  seen  before 
in  my  life.     He  was  carrying  on  a  platter  the 

^  Princes,  princesses,  counts,  and  countesses  have  the  title  of  Siyd- 
tehtvo  (siydm— to  shine,  to  be  radiant);  generally  translated  "Illus- 
trious Highness"  or  "Serenity."— Translator. 

13 


FIRST  LOVE 

gnawed  spinal  bone  of  a  herring,  and,  pushing  to 
with  his  foot  the  door  which  led  into  the  adjoining 
room,  he  said  abruptly:—"  What  do  you  want?  " 

"  Is  Princess  Zasyekin  at  home?  " — I  inquired. 

"Vonifaty!" — screamed  a  quavering  female 
voice  on  the  other  side  of  the  door. 

The  servant  silently  turned  his  back  on  me, 
thereby  displaying  the  badly-worn  rear  of  his 
livery  with  its  solitary,  rusted,  armouried  button, 
and  went  away,  leaving  the  platter  on  the  floor. 

"  Hast  thou  been  to  the  police-station?  " — went 
on  that  same  feminine  voice.  The  servant  mut- 
tered something  in  reply. — "  Hey?  ....  Some 
one  has  come?" — was  the  next  thing  audible. 
.  .  .  .  "  The  young  gentleman  from  next  door? 
— Well,  ask  him  in." 

"  Please  come  into  the  drawing-room,  sir," — 
said  the  servant,  making  his  appearance  again 
before  me,  and  picking  up  the  platter  from  the 
floor.  I  adjusted  my  attire  and  entered  the 
"  drawing-room." 

I  found  myself  in  a  tiny  and  not  altogether 
clean  room,  with  shabby  furniture  which  seemed 
to  have  been  hastily  set  in  place.  At  the  window, 
in  an  easy-chair  with  a  broken  arm,  sat  a  woman 
of  fifty,  with  uncovered  hair  ^  and  plain-featured, 
clad  in  an  old  green  gown,  and  with  a  variegated 

^  The  custom  still  prevails  in  Russia,  to  a  great  extent,  for  all 
elderly  women  to  wear  caps.  In  the  peasant  class  it  is  considered  as 
extremely  indecorous  to  go  "simple-haired,"  as  the  expression  runs 
— Thanslaxcr. 

14 


FIRST  LOVE 

worsted  kerchief  round  her  neck.     Her  small 
black  eyes  fairly  bored  into  me. 

I  went  up  to  her  and  made  my  bow. 

"  I  have  the  honour  of  speaking  to  Princess 
Zasyekin? " 

"  I  am  Princess  Zasyekin:  and  you  are  the  son 
of  Mr.  B-?" 

"  Yes,  madam.  I  have  come  to  you  with  a  mes- 
sage from  my  mother." 

"Pray  be  seated.  Vonifaty!  where  are  my 
keys?    Hast  thou  seen  them?  " 

I  communicated  to  Madame  Zasyekin  my  mo- 
ther's answer  to  her  note.  She  listened  to  me, 
tapping  the  window-pane  with  her  thick,  red 
fingers,  and  when  I  had  finished  she  riveted  her 
eyes  on  me  once  more. 

"  Very  good;  I  shall  certainly  go,"— said  she  at 
last.—"  But  how  young  you  are  still!  How  old 
are  you,  allow  me  to  ask? " 

"  Sixteen," — I  replied  with  involuntary  hesita- 
tion. 

The  Princess  pulled  out  of  her  pocket  some 
dirty,  written  documents,  raised  them  up  to  her 
very  nose  and  began  to  sort  them  over. 

"  'T  is  a  good  age,"— she  suddenly  articulated, 
turning  and  fidgeting  in  her  chair. — "  And  please 
do  not  stand  on  ceremony.    We  are  plain  folks." 

"  Too  plain,"— I  thought,  with  involuntary 
disgust  taking  in  with  a  glance  the  whole  of  her 
homely  figure. 

15 


FIRST  LOVE 

At  that  moment,  the  other  door  of  the  drawing- 
room  was  swiftly  thrown  wide  open,  and  on  the 
threshold  appeared  the  young  girl  whom  I  had 
seen  in  the  garden  the  evening  before.  She 
raised  her  hand  and  a  smile  flitted  across  her  face. 

*'  And  here  is  my  daughter," — said  the  Prin- 
cess, pointing  at  her  with  her  elbow.—"  Zino- 
tchka,  the  son  of  our  neighbour,  Mr.  B— .  What 
is  your  name,  permit  me  to  inquire?  " 

"  Vladimir," — I  replied,  rising  and  lisping  with 
agitation. 

"  And  your  patronymic?  " 

"  Petrovitch." 

"  Yes!  I  once  had  an  acquaintance,  a  chief  of 
police,  whose  name  was  Vladimir  Petrovitch  also. 
Vonifaty!  don't  hunt  for  the  keys;  the  keys  are 
in  my  pocket." 

The  young  girl  continued  to  gaze  at  me  with 
the  same  smile  as  before,  slightly  puckering  up 
her  eyes  and  bending  her  head  a  little  on  one  side. 

"  I  have  already  seen  M'sieu  Voldemar,"— she 
began.  (The  silvery  tone  of  her  voice  coursed 
through  me  like  a  sweet  chill.)  — "  Will  you  per- 
mit me  to  call  you  so?  " 

"  Pray  do,  madam," — I  lisped. 

"Where  was  that?  "—asked  the  Princess. 

The  young  Princess  did  not  answer  her  mother. 

"  Are  you  busy  now?  " — she  said,  without  tak- 
ing her  eyes  off  me. 

"  Not  in  the  least,  madam." 
16 


FIRST  LOVE 

"  Then  will  you  help  me  to  wind  some  wool? 
Come  hither,  to  me." 

She  nodded  her  head  at  me  and  left  the  draw- 
ing-room.   I  followed  her. 

In  the  room  which  we  entered  the  furniture  was 
a  little  better  and  was  arranged  with  great  taste. 
— But  at  that  moment  I  was  almost  unable  to  no- 
tice anything ;  I  moved  as  though  in  a  dream  and 
felt  a  sort  of  intense  sensation  of  well-being  verg- 
ing on  stupidity  throughout  my  frame. 

The  young  Princess  sat  down,  produced  a  knot 
of  red  wool,  and  pointing  me  to  a  chair  opposite 
her,  she  carefully  unbound  the  skein  and  placed 
it  on  my  hands.  She  did  all  this  in  silence,  with 
a  sort  of  diverting  deliberation,  and  with  the  same 
brilliant  and  crafty  smile  on  her  slightly  parted 
lips.  She  began  to  wind  the  wool  upon  a  card 
doubled  together,  and  suddenly  illumined  me  with 
such  a  clear,  swift  glance,  that  I  involuntarily 
dropped  my  eyes.  When  her  eyes,  which  were 
generally  half  closed,  opened  to  their  full  extent 
her  face  underwent  a  complete  change ;  it  was  as 
though  light  had  inundated  it. 

"  What  did  you  think  of  me  yesterday,  M'sieu 
Voldemar?  " — she  asked,  after  a  brief  pause. — 
"  You  certainly  must  have  condemned  me?  " 

"  I  .  .  .  .  Princess  ....  I  thought  nothing 
....  how  can  I "I  replied,  in  confu- 
sion. 

"  Listen,"— she  returned.—"  You  do  not  know 

17 


FIRST  LOVE 

me  yet;  I  want  people  always  to  speak  the  truth 
to  me.  You  are  sixteen,  I  heard,  and  I  am 
twenty-one ;  you  see  that  I  am  a  great  deal  older 
than  you,  and  therefore  you  must  always  speak 
the  truth  to  me  .  .  .  and  obey  me,"— she  added. 
— "  Look  at  me;  why  don't  you  look  at  me?  " 

I  became  still  more  confused;  but  I  raised  my 
eyes  to  hers,  nevertheless.  She  smiled,  only  not 
in  her  former  manner,  but  with  a  different,  an 
approving  smile. — "  Look  at  me," — she  said,  ca- 
ressingly lowering  her  voice: — "  I  don't  like  that. 
.  .  .  Your  face  pleases  me ;  I  foresee  that  we  shall 
be  friends.    And  do  you  like  me?  "—she  added 

slyly. 

"  Princess  .  ..."  I  was  beginning.  .  .  . 

"  In  the  first  place,  call  me  Zinaida  Alexan- 
drovna;  and  in  the  second  place, — what  sort  of  a 
habit  is  it  for  children  " —  (she  corrected  herself) 
—  "  for  young  men — not  to  say  straight  out  what 
they  feel?    You  do  like  me,  don't  you?  " 

Although  it  was  very  pleasant  to  me  to  have 
her  talk  so  frankly  to  me,  still  I  was  somewhat 
nettled.  I  wanted  to  show  her  that  she  was  not 
dealing  with  a  small  boy,  and,  assuming  as  easy 
and  serious  a  mien  as  I  could,  I  said: — "Of 
course  I  like  you  very  much,  Zinaida  Alexan- 
drovna;  I  have  no  desire  to  conceal  the  fact." 

She  shook  her  head,  pausing  at  intervals. — 
"  Have  you  a  governor?  " — she  suddenly  in- 
quired. 

18 


FIRST  LOVE 

"  No,  I  have  not  had  a  governor  this  long  time 
past." 

I  lied:  a  month  had  not  yet  elapsed  since  I 
had  parted  with  my  Frenchman. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  see:  you  are  quite  grown  up." 

She  slapped  me  lightly  on  the  fingers.—"  Hold 
your  hands  straight!  "—And  she  busied  herself 
diligently  with  winding  her  ball. 

I  took  advantage  of  the  fact  that  she  did  not 
raise  her  eyes,  and  set  to  scrutinising  her,  first  by 
stealth,  then  more  and  more  boldly.  Her  face 
seemed  to  me  even  more  charming  than  on  the  day 
before :  everything  about  it  was  so  delicate,  intel- 
ligent and  lovely.  She  was  sitting  with  her  back 
to  the  window,  which  was  hung  with  a  white 
shade;  a  ray  of  sunlight  making  its  way  through 
that  shade  inundated  with  a  flood  of  light  her 
fluffy  golden  hair,  her  innocent  neck,  sloping 
shoulders,  and  calm,  tender  bosom. — I  gazed  at 
her — and  how  near  and  dear  she  became  to  me! 
It  seemed  to  me  both  that  I  had  known  her  for 
a  long  time  and  that  I  had  known  nothing  and 
had  not  lived  before  she  came.  .  .  .  She  wore  a 
rather  dark,  already  shabby  gown,  with  an  apron ; 
I  believe  I  would  willingly  have  caressed  every 
fold  of  that  gown  and  of  that  apron.  The  tips  of 
her  shoes  peeped  out  from  under  her  gown;  I 
would  have  bowed  down  to  those  little  boots.  .  . 
"  And  here  I  sit,  in  front  of  her," — I  thought. — 
*'  I  have  become  acquainted  with  her  ....  what 

19 


FIRST  LOVE 

happiness,  my  God !  "  I  came  near  bouncing  out 
of  my  chair  with  rapture,  but  I  merely  dangled 
my  feet  to  and  fro  a  little,  like  a  child  who  is  en- 
joying dainties. 

I  felt  as  much  at  my  ease  as  a  fish  does  in  water, 
and  I  would  have  liked  never  to  leave  that  room 
again  as  long  as  I  lived. 

Her  eyelids  slowly  rose,  and  again  her  brilliant 
eyes  beamed  caressingly  before  me,  and  again  she 
laughed. 

"How  you  stare  at  me!"— she  said  slowly, 
shaking  her  finger  at  me. 

I  flushed  scarlet "  She  understands  all, 

she  sees  all," — flashed  through  my  head.  "  And 
how  could  she  fail  to  see  and  understand  all?  " 

Suddenly  there  was  a  clattering  in  the  next 
room,  and  a  sword  clanked. 

*'  Zma!  " — screamed  the  old  Princess  from  the 
drawing-room. — "  ByelovzorofF  has  brought  thee 
a  kitten." 

"A  kitten!" — cried  Zinaida,  and  springing 
headlong  from  her  chair,  she  flung  the  ball  on  my 
knees  and  ran  out. 

I  also  rose,  and,  laying  the  skein  of  wool  on  the 
window-sill,  went  into  the  drawing-room,  and 
stopped  short  in  amazement.  In  the  centre  of  the 
room  lay  a  kitten  with  outstretched  paws ;  Zinaida 
was  kneeling  in  front  of  it,  and  carefully  raising 
its  snout.  By  the  side  of  the  young  Princess,  tak- 
ing up  nearly  the  entire  wall-space  between  the 

20 


FIRST  LOVE 

windows,  was  visible  a  fair-complexioned,  curly- 
haired  young  man,  a  hussar,  with  a  rosy  face  and 
protruding  eyes. 

"How  ridiculous!" — Zinaida  kept  repeating: 
— "  and  its  eyes  are  not  grey,  but  green,  and  what 
big  ears  it  has!  Thank  you,  Viktor  Egoritch! 
you  are  very  kind." 

The  hussar,  in  whom  I  recognised  one  of  the 
young  men  whom  I  had  seen  on  the  preceding 
evening,  smiled  and  bowed,  clicking  his  spurs  and 
clanking  the  links  of  his  sword  as  he  did  so. 

"  You  were  pleased  to  say  yesterday  that  you 
wished  to  possess  a  striped  kitten  with  large  ears 
....  so  I  have  got  it,  madam.  Your  word  is 
my  law." — And  again  he  bowed. 

The  kitten  mewed  faintly,  and  began  to  sniff  at 
the  floor. 

"He  is  hungry!" — cried  Zinaida. — "  Voni- 
faty!  Sonya!  bring  some  milk." 

The  chambermaid,  in  an  old  yellow  gown  and 
with  a  faded  kerchief  on  her  head,  entered  with  a 
saucer  of  milk  in  her  hand,  and  placed  it  in  front 
of  the  kitten.  The  kitten  quivered,  blinked,  and 
began  to  lap. 

"  What  a  rosy  tongue  it  has,"— remarked 
Zinaida,  bending  her  head  down  almost  to  the 
floor,  and  looking  sideways  at  it,  under  its  very 
nose. 

The  kitten  drank  its  fill,  and  began  to  purr,  af- 
fectedly contracting  and  relaxing  its  paws.    Zi- 

21 


FIRST  LOVE 

naida  rose  to  her  feet,  and  turning  to  the  maid, 
said  indifferently: — "  Take  it  away." 

"  Your  hand — in  return  for  the  kitten," — said 
the  hussar,  displaying  his  teeth,  and  bending  over 
the  whole  of  his  huge  body,  tightly  confined  in  a 
new  uniform. 

"  Both  hands,"— replied  Zinaida,  offering  him 
her  hands.  While  he  was  kissing  them,  she  gazed 
at  me  over  his  shoulder. 

I  stood  motionless  on  one  spot,  and  did  not 
know  whether  to  laugh  or  to  say  something,  or  to 
hold  my  peace.  Suddenly,  through  the  open  door 
of  the  anteroom,  the  figure  of  our  footman, 
Feodor,  caught  my  eye.  He  was  making  signs 
to  me.    I  mechanically  went  out  to  him. 

"  What  dost  thou  want?  "—I  asked. 

"  Your  mamma  has  sent  for  you," — he  said  in 
a  whisper. — "  She  is  angry  because  you  do  not  re- 
turn with  an  answer." 

"  Why,  have  I  been  here  long?  " 

"  More  than  an  hour." 

"More  than  an  hour!" — I  repeated  involun- 
tarily, and  returning  to  the  drawing-room,  I  be- 
gan to  bow  and  scrape  my  foot. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  " — the  young  Princess 
asked  me,  with  a  glance  at  the  hussar. 

"  I  must  go  home,  madam.  So  I  am  to  say," — 
I  added,  addressing  the  old  woman,—"  that  you 
will  call  upon  us  at  two  o'clock." 

"  Say  that,  my  dear  fellow." 

22 


FIRST   LOVE 

The  old  Princess  hurriedly  drew  out  her  snuff- 
box, and  took  a  pinch  so  noisily  that  I  fairly 
jumped.—"  Say  that,"— she  repeated,  tearfully 
blinking  and  grunting. 

I  bowed  once  more,  turned  and  left  the  room 
with  the  same  sensation  of  awkwardness  in  my 
back  which  a  very  young  man  experiences  when 
he  knows  that  people  are  staring  after  him. 

"  Look  here,  M'sieu  Voldemar,  you  must  drop 
in  to  see  us," — called  Zinaida,  and  again  burst  out 
laughing. 

"What  makes  her  laugh  all  the  time?"  I 
thought,  as  I  wended  my  way  home  accompanied 
by  Feodor,  who  said  nothing  to  me,  but  moved 
along  disapprovingly  behind  me.  My  mother  re- 
proved me,  and  inquired,  with  surprise,  "  What 
could  I  have  been  doing  so  long  at  the  Prin- 
cess's? "  I  made  her  no  answer,  and  went  off  to 
my  own  room.  I  had  suddenly  grown  very  mel- 
ancholy. ...  I  tried  not  to  weep.  ...  I  was 
jealous  of  the  hussar. 

V 

The  Princess,  according  to  her  promise,  called 
on  my  mother,  and  did  not  please  her.  I  was  not 
present  at  their  meeting,  but  at  table  my  mother 
narrated  to  my  father  that  that  Princess  Zasyekin 
seemed  to  her  a  femme  tres  vulgaire;  that  she  had 
bored  her  immensely  with  her  requests  that  she 

23 


FIRST  LOVE 

would  intervene  on  her  behalf  with  Prince  Ser- 
gyei;  that  she  was  always  having  such  law-suits 
and  affairs,— de  vilaines  affaires  df argent, —audi 
that  she  must  be  a  great  rogue.  But  my  mother 
added  that  she  had  invited  her  with  her  daughter 
to  dine  on  the  following  day  (on  hearing  the 
words  "  with  her  daughter,"  I  dropped  my  nose 
into  my  plate),— because,  notwithstanding,  she 
was  a  neighbour,  and  with  a  name.  Thereupon 
my  father  informed  my  mother  that  he  now  re- 
called who  the  lady  was :  that  in  his  youth  he  had 
known  the  late  Prince  Zasyekin,  a  capitally-edu- 
cated but  flighty  and  captious  man;  that  in  so- 
ciety he  was  called  "  le  Parisien/'  because  of  his 
long  residence  in  Paris;  that  he  had  been  very 
wealthy,  but  had  gambled  away  all  his  property 
—and,  no  one  knew  why,  though  probably  it  had 
been  for  the  sake  of  the  money, — "  although  he 
might  have  made  a  better  choice,"— added  my 
father,  with  a  cold  smile,— he  had  married  the 
daughter  of  some  clerk  in  a  chancellery,  and  after 
his  marriage  had  gone  into  speculation,  and 
ruined  himself  definitively. 

*'  'T  is  a  wonder  she  did  not  try  to  borrow 
money,"— remarked  my  mother. 

"  She  is  very  likely  to  do  it,"— said  my  father, 
calmly.—"  Does  she  speak  French?  " 

"  Very  badly." 

"  M-m-m.  However,  that  makes  no  difference. 
24 


FIRST  LOVE 

I  think  thou  saidst  that  thou  hadst  invited  her 
daughter ;  some  one  assured  me  that  she  is  a  very 
charming  and  well-educated  girl." 

"Ah!  Then  she  does  not  take  after  her 
mother." 

"  Nor  after  her  father,"— returned  my  father. 
— "  He  was  also  well  educated,  but  stupid." 

My  mother  sighed,  and  became  thoughtful. 
My  father  relapsed  into  silence.  I  felt  very  awk- 
ward during  the  course  of  that  conversation. 

After  dinner  I  betook  myself  to  the  garden, 
but  without  my  gun.  I  had  pledged  my  word  to 
myself  that  I  would  not  go  near  the  "  Zasyekin 
garden  " ;  but  an  irresistible  force  drew  me  thither, 
and  not  in  vain.  I  had  no  sooner  approached  the 
fence  than  I  caught  sight  of  Zinaida.  This  time 
she  was  alone.  She  was  holding  a  small  book  in 
her  hands  and  strolling  slowly  along  the  path. 
She  did  not  notice  me.  I  came  near  letting  her 
slip  past;  but  suddenly  caught  myself  up  and 
coughed. 

She  turned  round  but  did  not  pause,  put  aside 
with  one  hand  the  broad  blue  ribbon  of  her  round 
straw  hat,  looked  at  me,  smiled  quietly,  and  again 
riveted  her  eyes  on  her  book. 

I  pulled  off  my  cap,  and  after  fidgeting  about 
a  while  on  one  spot,  I  went  away  with  a  heavy 
heart.  "Que  suis-je  pour  elle?"—\  thought 
(God  knows  why)  in  French. 

25 


FIRST  LOVE 

Familiar  footsteps  resounded  behind  me;  I 
glanced  round  and  beheld  my  father  advancing 
toward  me  with  swift,  rapid  strides. 

"  Is  that  the  young  Princess?  "—he  asked  me. 

"  Yes." 

"  Dost  thou  know  her?  " 

"  I  saw  her  this  morning  at  the  Princess  her 
mother's." 

My  father  halted  and,  wheeling  abruptly 
round  on  his  heels,  retraced  his  steps.  As  he  came 
on  a  level  with  Zinaida  he  bowed  courteously  to 
her.  She  bowed  to  him  in  return,  not  without 
some  surprise  on  her  face,  and  lowered  her  book. 
I  saw  that  she  followed  him  with  her  eyes.  My 
father  always  dressed  very  elegantly,  originally 
and  simply;  but  his  figure  had  never  seemed  to 
me  more  graceful,  never  had  his  grey  hat  sat  more 
handsomely  on  his  curls,  which  were  barely  begin- 
ning to  grow  thin. 

I  was  on  the  point  of  directing  my  course  to- 
ward Zinaida,  but  she  did  not  even  look  at  me, 
but  raised  her  book  once  more  and  walked  awav. 


VI 

I  SPENT  the  whole  of  that  evening  and  the  follow- 
ing day  in  a  sort  of  gloomy  stupor.  I  remember 
that  I  made  an  effort  to  work,  and  took  up  Kai- 
danofF;  but  in  vain  did  the  large-printed  lines 

26 


FIRST  LOVE 

and  pages  of  the  famous  text-book  flit  before  my 
eyes.  Ten  times  in  succession  I  read  the  words: 
"  Julius  Caesar  was  distinguished  for  military 
daring,"  without  understanding  a  word,  and  I 
flung  aside  my  book.  Before  dinner  I  pomaded 
my  hair  again,  and  again  donned  my  frock-coat 
and  neckerchief. 

"  What 's  that  for?  "—inquired  my  mother.— 
"  Thou  art  not  a  student  yet,  and  God  knows  whe- 
ther thou  wilt  pass  thy  examination.  And  thy 
round- jacket  was  made  not  very  long  ago.  Thou 
must  not  discard  it !  " 

"  There  are  to  be  guests,"— I  whispered,  almost 
in  despair. 

"What  nonsense!  What  sort  of  guests  are 
they? " 

I  was  compelled  to  submit.  I  exchanged  my 
coat  for  my  round- jacket,  but  did  not  remove  my 
neckerchief.  The  Princess  and  her  daughter 
made  their  appearance  half  an  hour  before  din- 
ner; the  old  woman  had  thrown  a  yellow  shawl 
over  her  green  gown,  with  which  I  was  familiar, 
and  had  donned  an  old-fashioned  mob-cap  with 
ribbons  of  a  fiery  hue.  She  immediately  began  to 
talk  about  her  notes  of  hand,  to  sigh  and  to  be- 
wail her  poverty,  and  to  "  importune,"  but  did 
not  stand  in  the  least  upon  ceremony;  and  she 
took  snufF  noisily  and  fidgeted  and  wriggled  in 
her  chair  as  before.  It  never  seemed  to  enter  her 
head  that  she  was  a  Princess.    On  the  other  hand, 

27 


FIRST  LOVE 

Zinaida  bore  herself  very  stiffly,  almost  haughtily, 
like  a  real  young  Princess.  Cold  impassivity  and 
dignity  had  made  their  appearance  on  her  coun- 
tenance, and  I  did  not  recognise  her, — did  not 
recognise  her  looks  or  her  smile,  although  in  this 
new  aspect  she  seemed  to  me  very  beautiful.  She 
wore  a  thin  barege  gown  with  pale-blue  figures; 
her  hair  fell  in  long  curls  along  her  cheeks,  in  the 
English  fashion :  this  coiffure  suited  the  cold  ex- 
pression of  her  face. 

My  father  sat  beside  her  during  dinner,  and 
with  the  exquisite  and  imperturbable  courtesy 
which  was  characteristic  of  him,  showed  attention 
to  his  neighbour.  He  glanced  at  her  from  time  to 
time,  and  she  glanced  at  him  now  and  then,  but 
in  such  a  strange,  almost  hostile,  manner. 
Their  conversation  proceeded  in  French;— I 
remember  that  I  was  surprised  at  the  purity  of 
Zinaida's  accent.  The  old  Princess,  as  before, 
did  not  restrain  herself  in  the  slightest  degree  dur- 
ing dinner,  but  ate  a  great  deal  and  praised  the 
food.  My  mother  evidently  found  her  wearisome, 
and  answered  her  with  a  sort  of  sad  indifference; 
my  father  contracted  his  brows  in  a  slight  frown 
from  time  to  time.  My  mother  did  not  like  Zi- 
naida either. 

"  She  's  a  haughty  young  sprig,"— she  said  the 
next  day.—"  And  when  one  comes  to  think  of  it, 
what  is  there  for  her  to  be  proud  of  1—avec  sa 
mine  de  grisette! " 

28 


FIRST  LOVE 

"  Evidently,  thou  hast  not  seen  any  grisettes," 
—my  father  remarked  to  her. 

"  Of  course  I  have  n't,  God  be  thanked! 

Only,  how  art  thou  capable  of  judging  of  them?  " 

Zinaida  paid  absolutely  no  attention  whatever 
to  me.  Soon  after  dinner  the  old  Princess  began 
to  take  her  leave. 

"  I  shall  rely  upon  your  protection,  Marya 
Nikolaevna  and  Piotr  Vasilitch," — she  said,  in 
a  sing-song  tone,  to  my  father  and  mother.— 
"What  is  to  be  done!  I  have  seen  prosperous 
days,  but  they  are  gone.  Here  am  I  a  Radiance," 
— she  added,  with  an  unpleasant  laugh, — "  but 
what 's  the  good  of  an  honour  when  you  've  no- 
thing to  eat?  " — My  father  bowed  respectfully  to 
her  and  escorted  her  to  the  door  of  the  anteroom. 
I  was  standing  there  in  my  round- jacket,  and 
staring  at  the  floor,  as  though  condemned  to 
death.  Zinaida's  behaviour  toward  me  had  de- 
finitively annihilated  me.  What,  then,  was  my 
amazement  when,  as  she  passed  me,  she  whispered 
to  me  hastily,  and  with  her  former  affectionate 
expression  in  her  eyes:—"  Come  to  us  at  eight 
o'clock,  do  you  hear?  without  fail.  ..."  I  merely 
threw  my  hands  apart  in  amazement; — but  she 
was  already  retreating,  having  thrown  a  white 
scarf  over  her  head. 


29 


FIRST  LOVE 


VII 


Precisely  at  eight  o'clock  I  entered  the  tiny 
wing  inhabited  by  the  Princess,  clad  in  my  coat, 
and  with  my  hair  brushed  up  into  a  crest  on  top 
of  my  head.  The  old  servant  glared  surlily  at 
me,  and  rose  reluctantly  from  his  bench.  Merry 
voices  resounded  in  the  drawing-room.  I  opened 
the  door  and  retreated  a  pace  in  astonishment.  In 
the  middle  of  the  room,  on  a  chair,  stood  the 
young  Princess,  holding  a  man's  hat  in  front  of 
her;  around  the  chair  thronged  five  men.  They 
were  trying  to  dip  their  hands  into  the  hat,  but  she 
kept  raising  it  on  high  and  shaking  it  violently. 
On  catching  sight  of  me  she  exclaimed: — 

"  Stay,  stay!  Here  's  a  new  guest;  he  must  be 
given  a  ticket," — and  springing  lightly  from  the 
chair,  she  seized  me  by  the  lapel  of  my  coat. — 
"  Come  along,"— said  she;— "why  do  you  stand 
there?  Messieurs,  allow  me  to  make  you  ac- 
quainted: this  is  Monsieur  Voldemar,  the  son  of 
our  neighbour.  And  this,"— she  added,  turning 
to  me,  and  pointing  to  the  visitors  in  turn, — "is 
Count  Malevsky,  Doctor  Liishin,  the  poet  Mai- 
danofF,  retired  Captain  Nirmatzky,  and  Byelov- 
zorofF  the  hussar,  whom  you  have  already  seen. 
I  beg  that  you  will  love  and  favour  each  other." 

I  was  so  confused  that  I  did  not  even  bow  to 
any  one ;  in  Doctor  Lushin  I  recognised  that  same 

30 


FIRST  LOVE 

swarthy  gentleman  who  had  so  ruthlessly  put  me 
to  shame  in  the  garden ;  the  others  were  strangers 
tome. 

"  Count!  "—pursued  Zinaida,— "  write  a  ticket 
for  M'sieu  Voldemar." 

"  That  is  unjust," — returned  the  Count,  with  a 
slight  accent,— a  very  handsome  and  foppishly- 
attired  man,  with  a  dark  complexion,  expressive 
brown  eyes,  a  thin,  white  little  nose,  and  a  slender 
moustache  over  his  tiny  mouth. — "  He  has  not 
been  playing  at  forfeits  with  us." 

"  'T  is  unjust," — repeated  ByelovzorofF  and 
the  gentleman  who  had  been  alluded  to  as  the  re- 
tired Captain, — a  man  of  forty,  horribly  pock- 
marked, curly-haired  as  a  negro,  round-shoul- 
dered, bow-legged,  and  dressed  in  a  military  coat 
without  epaulets,  worn  open  on  the  breast. 

"  Write  a  ticket,  I  tell  you,"— repeated  the 
Princess. — "What  sort  of  a  rebellion  is  this? 
M'sieu  Voldemar  is  with  us  for  the  first  time,  and 
to-day  no  law  applies  to  him.  No  grumbling — 
write ;  I  will  have  it  so." 

The  Count  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  submis- 
sively bowing  his  head,  he  took  a  pen  in  his  white, 
ring-decked  hand,  tore  off  a  scrap  of  paper  and 
began  to  write  on  it. 

"  Permit  me  at  least  to  explain  to  M'sieu 
Voldemar  what  it  is  all  about,"— began  Liishin, 
in  a  bantering  tone;— "  otherwise  he  will  be  ut- 
terly at  a  loss.    You  see,  young  man,  we  are  play- 

31 


FIRST  LOVE 

ing  at  forfeits ;  the  Princess  must  pay  a  fine,  and 
the  one  who  draws  out  the  lucky  ticket  must  kiss 
her  hand.  Do  you  understand  what  I  have  told 
you  J 

I  merely  glanced  at  him  and  continued  to  stand 
as  though  in  a  fog,  while  the  Princess  again 
sprang  upon  the  chair  and  again  began  to  shake 
the  hat.    All  reached  up  to  her — I  among  the  rest. 

"  MaidanofF,"— said  the  Princess  to  the  tall 
young  man  with  a  gaunt  face,  tiny  mole-like  eyes 
and  extremely  long,  black  hair, — "  j^ou,  as  a  poet, 
ought  to  be  magnanimous  and  surrender  your 
ticket  to  M'sieu  Voldemar,  so  that  he  may  have 
two  chances  instead  of  one." 

But  MaidanoiF  shook  his  head  in  refusal  and 
tossed  his  hair.  I  put  in  my  hand  into  the  hat 
after  all  the  rest,  drew  out  and  unfolded  a  ticket. 
.  .  .  O  Lord!  what  were  my  sensations  when  I 
beheld  on  it,  "Kiss!" 

"  Kiss!  "—I  cried  involuntarily. 

"  Bravo!  He  has  won,"— chimed  in  the  Prin- 
cess.— "  How  delighted  I  am  J  "—She  descended 
from  the  chair,  and  gazed  into  my  eyes  so  clearly 
and  sweetly  that  my  heart  fairly  laughed  with 
joy. — "And  are  you  glad?"— she  asked  me. 

"I?"  .  .  .  I  stammered. 

"  Sell  me  your  ticket," — suddenly  blurted  out 
ByelovzorofF,  right  in  my  ear. — "  I  '11  give  you 
one  hundred  rubles  for  it." 

I  replied  to  the  hussar  by  such  a  wrathful  look 
32 


FIRST  LOVE 

that  Zinaida  clapped  her  hands,  and  Lushin  cried : 
— "  That 's  a  gallant  fellow!  " 

"  But," — he  went  on, — "  in  my  capacity  of 
master  of  ceremonies,  I  am  bound  to  see  that  all 
the  regulations  are  carried  out.  M'sieu  Volde- 
mar,  get  down  on  one  knee.    That  is  our  rule." 

Zinaida  stood  before  me  with  her  head  bent  a 
little  to  one  side,  as  though  the  better  to  scrutinise 
me,  and  offered  me  her  hand  with  dignity. 
Things  grew  dim  before  my  eyes;  I  tried  to  get 
down  on  one  knee,  plumped  down  on  both  knees, 
and  applied  my  lips  to  Zinaida's  fingers  in  so  awk- 
ward a  manner  that  I  scratched  the  tip  of  my 
nose  slightly  on  her  nails. 

"  Good!  " — shouted  Lushin,  and  helped  me  to 
rise. 

The  game  of  forfeits  continued.  Zinaida 
placed  me  beside  her.  What  penalties  they  did 
invent!  Among  other  things,  she  had  to  imper- 
sonate a  "  statue  " — and  she  selected  as  a  pedestal 
the  monstrously  homely  Nirmatzky,  ordering 
him  to  lie  flat  on  the  floor,  and  to  tuck  his  face  into 
his  breast.  The  laughter  did  not  cease  for  a  sin- 
gle moment.  All  this  noise  and  uproar,  this  un- 
ceremonious, almost  tumultuous  merriment,  these 
imprecedented  relations  with  strangers,  fairly 
flew  to  my  head;  for  I  was  a  boy  who  had  been 
reared  soberly,  and  in  solitude,  and  had  grown  up 
in  a  stately  home  of  gentry.  I  became  simply  in- 
toxicated, as  though  with  wine.    I  began  to  shout 

83 


FIRST  LOVE 

with  laughter  and  chatter  more  loudly  than  the 
rest,  so  that  even  the  old  Princess,  who  was  sitting 
in  the  adjoining  room  with  some  sort  of  petti- 
fogger from  the  Iversky  Gate  ^  who  had  been 
summoned  for  a  conference,  came  out  to  take  a 
look  at  me.  But  I  felt  so  happy  that,  as  the  say- 
ing is,  I  didn't  care  a  farthing  for  anybody's 
ridicule,  or  anybody's  oblique  glances. 

Zinaida  continued  to  display  a  preference  for 
me  and  never  let  me  leave  her  side.  In  one  forfeit 
I  was  made  to  sit  by  her,  covered  up  with  one 
and  the  same  silk  kerchief:  I  was  bound  to  tell 
her  my  secret.  I  remember  how  our  two  heads 
found  themselves  suddenly  in  choking,  semi- 
transparent,  fragrant  gloom;  how  near  and 
softly  her  eyes  sparkled  in  that  gloom,  and  how 
hotly  her  parted  lips  breathed ;  and  her  teeth  were 
visible,  and  the  tips  of  her  hair  tickled  and  burned 
me.  I  maintained  silence.  She  smiled  mysteri- 
ously and  slyly,  and  at  last  whispered  to  me: 
"  Well,  what  is  it? "  But  I  merely  flushed  and 
laughed,  and  turned  away,  and  could  hardly  draw 
my  breath.  We  got  tired  of  forfeits,  and  began 
to  play  "  string."  Good  heavens!  what  rapture 
I  felt  when,  forgetting  myself  with  gaping,  I  re- 
ceived from  her  a  strong,  sharp  rap  on  my  fingers ; 
and  how  afterward  I  tried  to  pretend  that  I  was 

1  The  famous  gate  from  the  "White  town  "  into  the  "  China  town," 
in  Moscow,  where  there  is  a  renowned  holy  picture  of  the  Iberian 
Virgin,  in  a  chapel.  Evidently  the  lawyers'  quarter  was  in  this  vi 
cinity.  — Translator. 

34 


FIRST  LOVE 

yawning  with  inattention,  but  she  mocked  at  me 
and  did  not  touch  my  hands,  which  were  await- 
ing the  blow ! 

But  what  a  lot  of  other  pranks  we  played  that 
same  evening!  We  played  on  the  piano,  and 
sang,  and  danced,  and  represented  a  gipsy  camp. 
We  dressed  Nirmatzky  up  like  a  bear,  and 
fed  him  with  water  and  salt.  Count  Malev- 
sky  showed  us  several  card  tricks,  and  ended  by 
stacking  the  cards  and  dealing  himself  all  the 
trumps  at  whist;  upon  which  Liishin  "had  the 
honour  of  congratulating  him."  MaidanofF  de- 
claimed to  us  fragments  from  his  poem,  "  The 
Murderer  "  (this  occurred  in  the  very  thick  of 
romanticism),  which  he  intended  to  publish  in  a 
black  binding,  with  the  title  in  letters  of  the  colour 
of  blood.  We  stole  his  hat  from  the  knees  of  the 
pettifogger  from  the  Iversky  Gate,  and  made 
him  dance  the  kazak  dance  by  way  of  redeeming 
it.  We  dressed  old  Vonif  aty  up  in  a  mob-cap,  and 
the  young  Princess  put  on  a  man's  hat.  ...  It  is 
impossible  to  recount  all  we  did.  Byelovzoroff 
alone  remained  most  of  the  time  in  a  corner,  an- 
gry and  frowning.  .  .  .  Sometimes  his  eyes  be- 
came suffused  with  blood,  he  grew  scailet  all  over 
and  seemed  to  be  on  the  very  point  of  swooping 
down  upon  all  of  us  and  scattering  us  on  all  sides, 
like  chips ;  but  the  Princess  glanced  at  him,  men- 
aced him  with  her  finger,  and  again  he  retired 
into  his  corner. 

35 


FIRST  LOVE 

We  were  completely  exhausted  at  last.  The 
old  Princess  was  equal  to  anything,  as  she  put  it, 
—no  shouts  disconcerted  her,— but  she  felt  tired 
and  wished  to  rest.  At  midnight  supper  was 
served,  consisting  of  a  bit  of  old,  dry  cheese  and  a 
few  cold  patties  filled  with  minced  ham,  which 
seemed  to  us  more  savoury  than  any  pasty ;  there 
was  only  one  bottle  of  wine,  and  that  was  rather 
queer: — dark,  with  a  swollen  neck,  and  the  wine 
in  it  left  an  after-taste  of  pinkish  dye ;  however,  no 
one  drank  it.  Weary  and  happy  to  exhaustion,  I 
emerged  from  the  wing ;  a  thunder-storm  seemed 
to  be  brewing;  the  black  storm-clouds  grew 
larger  and  crept  across  the  sky,  visibly  altering 
their  smoky  outlines.  A  light  breeze  was  uneasily 
quivering  in  the  dark  trees,  and  somewhere  be- 
yond the  horizon  the  thunder  was  growling  an- 
grily and  dully,  as  though  to  itself. 

I  made  my  way  through  the  back  door  to  my 
room.  My  nurse-valet  was  sleeping  on  the  floor 
and  I  was  obliged  to  step  over  him;  he  woke  up, 
saw  me,  and  reported  that  my  mother  was  an- 
gry with  me,  and  had  wanted  to  send  after  me 
again,  but  that  my  father  had  restrained  her.  I 
never  went  to  bed  without  having  bidden  my  mo- 
ther good  night  and  begged  her  blessing.  There 
was  no  help  for  it !  I  told  my  valet  that  I  would 
undress  myself  and  go  to  bed  unaided,— and  ex- 
tinguished the  candle.  But  I  did  not  undress  and 
I  did  not  go  to  bed. 

36 


FIRST   LOVE 

I  seated  myself  on  a  chair  and  sat  there  for  a 
long  time,  as  though  enchanted.     That  which  I 

felt  was  so  new  and  so  sweet I  sat  there, 

hardly  looking  around  me  and  without  moving, 
breathing  slowly,  and  only  laughing  silently  now, 
as  I  recalled,  now  inwardly  turning  cold  at  the 
thought  that  I  was  in  love,  that  here  it  was,  that 
love.  Zinaida's  face  floated  softly  before  me  in 
the  darkness — floated,  but  did  not  float  away;  her 
lips  still  smiled  as  mysteriously  as  ever,  her  eyes 
gazed  somewhat  askance  at  me,  interrogatively, 
thoughtfully  and  tenderly  ....  as  at  the  mo- 
ment when  I  had  parted  from  her.  At  last  I  rose 
on  tiptoe,  stepped  to  my  bed  and  cautiously,  with- 
out undressing,  laid  my  head  on  the  pillow,  as 
though  endeavouring  by  the  sharp  movement  to 
frighten  off  that  wherewith  I  was  filled  to  over- 
flowing. .  .  . 

I  lay  down,  but  did  not  even  close  an  eye.  I 
speedily  perceived  that  certain  faint  reflections 

kept  constantly  falling  into  my  room I 

raised  myself  and  looked  out  of  the  window.  Its 
frame  was  distinctly  defined  from  the  mysteri- 
ously and  confusedly  whitened  panes.  "  'T  is  the 
thunder-storm,"— I  thought,— and  so,  in  fact, 
there  was  a  thunder-storm ;  but  it  had  passed  very 
far  away,  so  that  even  the  claps  of  thunder  were 
not  audible;  only  in  the  sky  long,  indistinct, 
branching  flashes  of  lightning,  as  it  were,  were 
uninterruptedly   flashing   up.      They   were   not 

37 


FIRST   LOVE 

flashing  up  so  much  as  they  were  quivering  and 
twitching,  hke  the  wing  of  a  dying  bird.  I  rose, 
went  to  the  window,  and  stood  there  until  morn- 
ing. .  .  .  The  hghtning-flashes  never  ceased  for 
a  moment;  it  was  what  is  called  a  pitch-black 
night.  I  gazed  at  the  dumb,  sandy  plain,  at  the 
dark  mass  of  the  Neskutchny  Park,  at  the  yellow- 
ish facades  of  the  distant  buildings,  which  also 
seemed  to  be  trembling  at  every  faint  flash.  .  .  . 
I  gazed,  and  could  not  tear  myself  away;  those 
dumb  lightning-flashes,  those  restrained  gleams, 
seemed  to  be  responding  to  the  dumb  and  secret 
outbursts  which  were  flaring  up  within  me 
also.  Morning  began  to  break ;  the  dawn  started 
forth  in  scarlet  patches.  With  the  approach  of 
the  sun  the  lightning-flashes  grew  paler  and 
paler ;  they  quivered  more  and  more  infrequently, 
and  vanished  at  last,  drowned  in  the  sober- 
ing and  unequivocal  light  of  the  breaking 
day. 

And  my  lightning-flashes  vanished  within  me 
also.  I  felt  great  fatigue  and  tranquillity  .  . .  but 
Zinaida's  image  continued  to  hover  triumphantly 
over  my  soul.  Only  it,  that  image,  seemed  calm ; 
like  a  flying  swan  from  the  marshy  sedges,  it 
separated  itself  from  the  other  ignoble  figures 
which  surrounded  it,  and  as  I  fell  asleep,  I  bowed 
down  before  it  for  the  last  time  in  farewell  and 
confiding  adoration.  .  .  . 

Oh,  gentle  emotions,  soft  sounds,  kindness  and 
38 


FIRST  LOVE 

calming  of  the  deeply-moved  soul,  melting  joy  of 
the  first  feelings  of  love, — where  are  ye,  where 
are  ye? 

VIII 

On  the  following  morning,  when  I  went  down- 
stairs to  tea,  my  mother  scolded  me, — although 
less  than  I  had  anticipated, — and  made  me  nar- 
rate how  I  had  spent  the  preceding  evening.  I 
answered  her  in  few  words,  omitting  many  par- 
ticulars and  endeavouring  to  impart  to  my  narra- 
tive the  most  innocent  of  aspects. 

"  Nevertheless,  they  are  not  people  comme  il 
faut" — remarked  my  mother; — "and  I  do  not 
wish  thee  to  run  after  them,  instead  of  preparing 
thyself  for  the  examination,  and  occupying  thy- 
self." 

As  I  knew  that  my  mother's  anxiety  was  con- 
fined to  these  few  words,  I  did  not  consider  it 
necessary  to  make  her  any  reply ;  but  after  tea  my 
father  linked  his  arm  in  mine,  and  betaking  him- 
self to  the  garden  with  me,  made  me  tell  him 
everything  I  had  done  and  seen  at  the  Zasyekins'. 

My  father  possessed  a  strange  influence  over 
me,  and  our  relations  were  strange.  He  paid 
hardly  any  attention  to  my  education,  but  he 
never  wounded  me;  he  respected  my  liberty— he 
was  even,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  courteous  to  me 
....  only,  he  did  not  allow  me  to  get  close  to  him. 

89 


FIRST   LOVE 

I  loved  him,  I  admired  him;  he  seemed  to  me  a 
model  man ;  and  great  heavens !  how  passionately 
attached  to  him  I  should  have  been,  had  I  not  con- 
stantly felt  his  hand  warding  me  off!  On  the 
other  hand,  when  he  wished,  he  understood  how 
to  evoke  in  me,  instantaneously,  with  one  word, 
one  movement,  unbounded  confidence  in  him.  My 
soul  opened,  I  chatted  with  him  as  with  an  intelli- 
gent friend,  as  with  an  indulgent  preceptor  .... 
then,  with  equal  suddenness,  he  abandoned  me, 
and  again  his  hand  repulsed  me,  caressingly  and 
softly,  but  repulsed  nevertheless. 

Sometimes  a  fit  of  mirth  came  over  him,  and 
then  he  was  ready  to  frolic  and  play  with  me 
like  a  boy  (he  was  fond  of  every  sort  of  ener- 
getic bodily  exercise)  ;  once — only  once — did  he 
caress  me  with  so  much  tenderness  that  I  came 
near  bursting  into  tears.  .  .  .  But  his  mirth  and 
tenderness  also  vanished  without  leaving  a  trace, 
and  what  had  taken  place  between  us  gave  me  no 
hopes  for  the  future;  it  was  just  as  though  I  had 
seen  it  all  in  a  dream.  I  used  to  stand  and  scru- 
tinise his  clever,  handsome,  brilliant  face  .... 
and  my  heart  would  begin  to  quiver,  and  my 
whole  being  would  yearn  toward  him,  ....  and  he 
would  seem  to  feel  what  was  going  on  within  me, 
and  would  pat  me  on  the  cheek  in  passing — and 
either  go  away,  or  begin  to  occupy  himself  with 
something,  or  suddenly  freeze  all  over, — as  he 
alone  knew  how  to  freeze, — and  I  would  immedi- 

40 


FIRST  LOVE 

ately  shrivel  up  and  grow  frigid  also.  His  rare 
fits  of  affection  for  me  were  never  called  forth 
by  my  speechless  but  intelligible  entreaties;  they 
always  came  upon  him  without  warning.  When 
meditating,  in  after  years,  upon  my  father's  char- 
acter, I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  did  not 
care  for  me  or  for  family  life ;  he  loved  something 
different,  and  enjoyed  that  other  thing  to  the 
full.  "  Seize  what  thou  canst  thyself,  and  do  not 
give  thyself  into  any  one's  power ;  the  whole  art  of 
life  consists  in  belonging  to  one's  self," — he  said 
to  me  once.  On  another  occasion  I,  in  my  ca- 
pacity of  a  young  democrat,  launched  out  in  his 
presence  into  arguments  about  liberty  (he  was 
what  I  called  "  kind  "  that  day;  at  such  times  one 
could  say  whatever  one  liked  to  him). — "Lib- 
erty,"— he  repeated, — "  but  dost  thou  know  what 
can  give  a  man  hberty?  " 

"  What? " 

"  Will,  his  own  will,  and  the  power  which  it 
gives  is  better  than  liberty.  Learn  to  will,  and 
thou  wilt  be  free,  and  wilt  command." 

My  father  wished,  first  of  all  and  most  of  all, 
to  enjoy  life— and  he  did  enjoy  life Per- 
haps he  had  a  presentiment  that  he  was  not  fated 
long  to  take  advantage  of  the  "  art  "  of  living:  he 
died  at  the  age  of  forty-two. 

I  described  to  my  father  in  detail  my  visit  to 
the  Zasyekins.  He  listened  to  me  half -atten- 
tively, half -abstractedly,  as  he  sat  on  the  bench 

41 


FIRST  LOVE 

and  drew  figures  on  the  sand  with  the  tip  of  his 
riding-whip.  Now  and  then  he  laughed,  glanced 
at  me  in  a  brilliant,  amused  sort  of  way,  and 
spurred  me  on  by  brief  questions  and  exclama- 
tions. At  first  I  could  not  bring  myself  even  to 
utter  Zinaida's  name,  but  I  could  not  hold  out, 
and  began  to  laud  her.  My  father  still  continued 
to  laugh.  Then  he  became  thoughtful,  dropped 
his  eyes  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

I  recalled  the  fact  that,  as  he  came  out  of  the 
house,  he  had  given  orders  that  his  horse  should 
be  saddled.  He  was  a  capital  rider,  and  knew 
much  better  how  to  tame  the  wildest  horses  than 
did  Mr.  Rarey. 

"  Shall  I  ride  with  thee,  papa?  " — I  asked  him. 

"  No," — he  replied,  and  his  face  assumed 
its  habitual  indifferently-caressing  expression. — 
"  Go  alone,  if  thou  wishest;  but  tell  the  coachman 
that  I  shall  not  go." 

He  turned  his  back  on  me  and  walked  swiftly 
away.  I  followed  him  with  my  eyes,  until  he  dis- 
appeared beyond  the  gate.  I  saw  his  hat  moving 
along  the  fence;  he  went  into  the  Zasyekins' 
house. 

He  remained  with  them  no  more  than  an  hour, 
but  immediately  thereafter  went  off  to  town  and 
did  not  return  home  until  evening. 

After  dinner  I  went  to  the  Zasyekins'  myself. 
I  found  no  one  in  the  drawing-room  but  the  old 
Princess.    When  she  saw  me,  she  scratched  her 

42 


FIRST  LOVE 

head  under  her  cap  with  the  end  of  her  knitting- 
needle,  and  suddenly  asked  me:  would  I  copy  a 
petition  for  her? 

"  With  pleasure,"— I  replied,  and  sat  down  on 
the  edge  of  a  chair. 

"  Only  look  out,  and  see  that  you  make  the  let- 
ters as  large  as  possible,"— said  the  Princess, 
handing  me  a  sheet  of  paper  scrawled  over  in  a 
slovenly  manner: — "  and  couldn't  you  do  it  to- 
day, my  dear  fellow  ?  " 

"  I  will  copy  it  this  very  day,  madam." 

The  door  of  the  adjoining  room  opened  a  mere 
crack  and  Zinaida's  face  showed  itself  in  the  aper- 
ture,—pale,  thoughtful,  with  hair  thrown  care- 
lessly back.  She  stared  at  me  with  her  large,  cold 
eyes,  and  softly  shut  the  door. 

"Zina,— hey  there,  Zina!"— said  the  old  wo- 
man. Zinaida  did  not  answer.  I  carried  away 
the  old  woman's  petition,  and  sat  over  it  the  whole 
evening. 

IX 

My  "  passion  "  began  with  that  day.  I  remember 
that  I  then  felt  something  of  that  which  a  man 
must  feel  when  he  enters  the  service:  I  had  al- 
ready ceased  to  be  a  young  lad ;  I  was  in  love.  I 
have  said  that  my  passion  dated  from  that  day ;  I 
might  have  added  that  my  sufferings  also  dated 
from  that  day.  I  languished  when  absent  from 
Zinaida;  my  mind  would  not  work,  everything 

43 


FIRST  LOVE 

fell  from  my  hands ;  I  thought  intently  of  her  fop 
days  together.  ...  I  languished  ....  but  in 
her  presence  I  was  no  more  at  ease.  I  was  jeal- 
ous,  I  recognised  my  insignificance,  I  stupidly 
sulked  and  stupidly  fawned ;  and,  nevertheless,  an 
irresistible  force  drew  me  to  her,  and  every  time  I 
stepped  across  the  threshold  of  her  room,  it  was 
with  an  involuntary  thrill  of  happiness.  Zinaida 
immediately  divined  that  I  had  fallen  in  love  with 
her,  and  I  never  thought  of  concealing  the  fact; 
she  mocked  at  my  passion,  played  tricks  on  me, 
petted  and  tormented  me.  It  is  sweet  to  be  the 
sole  source,  the  autocratic  and  irresponsible  cause 
of  the  greatest  joys  and  the  profoundest  woe  to 
another  person,  and  I  was  like  soft  wax  in  Zi- 
naida's  hands.  However,  I  was  not  the  only  one 
who  was  in  love  with  her;  all  the  men  who  were 
in  the  habit  of  visiting  her  house  were  crazy  over 
her,  and  she  kept  them  all  in  a  leash  at  her  feet. 
It  amused  her  to  arouse  in  them  now  hopes,  now 
fears,  to  twist  them  about  at  her  caprice  (she 
called  it,  "  knocking  people  against  one  an- 
other"),—and  they  never  thought  of  resisting, 
and  willingly  submitted  to  her.  In  all  her  viva- 
cious  and  beautiful  being  there  was  a  certain  pe- 
culiarly bewitching  mixture  of  guilefulness  and 
heedlessness,  of  artificiality  and  simplicity,  of 
tranquillity  and  playfulness;  over  everything  she 
did  or  said,  over  her  every  movement,  hovered  a 
light,  delicate  charm,  and  an  original,  sparkling 

44 


FIRST  LOVE 

force  made  itself  felt  in  everything.  And  her 
face  was  incessantly  changing  and  sparkling 
also ;  it  expressed  almost  simultaneously  derision, 
pensiveness,  and  passion.  The  most  varied  emo- 
tions, light,  fleeting  as  the  shadows  of  the  clouds 
on  a  sunny,  windy  day,  kept  flitting  over  her  eyes 
and  lips. 

Every  one  of  her  adorers  was  necessary  to  her. 
Byelovzorofl",  whom  she  sometimes  called  "  my 
wild  beast,"  and  sometimes  simply  "  my  own," 
would  gladly  have  flung  himself  into  the  fire  for 
her ;  without  trusting  to  his  mental  capacities  and 
other  merits,  he  kept  proposing  that  he  should 
marry  her,  and  hinting  that  the  others  were 
merely  talking  idly.  Maidanofl*  responded  to  the 
poetical  chords  of  her  soul :  a  rather  cold  man,  as 
nearly  all  writers  are,  he  assured  her  with  intense 
force— and  perhaps  himself  also— that  he  adored 
her.  He  sang  her  praises  in  interminable  verses 
and  read  them  to  her  with  an  unnatural  and  a  gen- 
uine sort  of  enthusiasm.  And  she  was  interested  in 
him  and  jeered  lightly  at  him;  she  did  not  believe 
in  him  greatly,  and  after  listening  to  his  efl'u- 
sions  she  made  him  read  Pushkin,  in  order,  as  she 
said,  to  purify  the  air.  Lushin,  the  sneering  doc- 
tor, who  was  cynical  in  speech,  knew  her  best  of 
all  and  loved  her  best  of  all,  although  he  abused 
her  to  her  face  and  behind  her  back.  She  re- 
spected him,  but  would  not  let  him  go,  and  some- 
times, with  a  peculiar,  malicious  pleasure,  made 

45 


FIRST  LOVE 

him  feel  that  he  was  in  her  hands.  "  I  am  a  co- 
quette, I  am  heartless,  I  have  the  nature  of  an 
actress,"  she  said  to  him  one  day  in  my  presence; 
"  and  't  is  well!  So  give  me  your  hand  and  I  will 
stick  a  pin  into  it,  and  you  will  feel  ashamed  be- 
fore this  young  man,  and  it  will  hurt  you ;  but  nev- 
ertheless, INIr.  Upright  Man,  you  will  be  so  good 
as  to  laugh."  Liishin  flushed  crimson,  turned 
away  and  bit  his  lips,  but  ended  by  putting  out 
his  hand.  She  pricked  it,  and  he  actually  did 
break  out  laughing  ....  and  she  laughed  also, 
thrusting  the  pin  in  pretty  deeply  and  gazing  into 
his  eyes  while  he  vainly  endeavoured  to  glance 
aside.  .  .  . 

I  understood  least  of  all  the  relations  existing 
between  Zinaida  and  Count  Malevsky.  That  he 
was  handsome,  adroit,  and  clever  even  I  felt,  but 
the  presence  in  him  of  some  false,  dubious  ele- 
ment, was  palpable  even  to  me,  a  lad  of  sixteen, 
and  I  was  amazed  that  Zinaida  did  not  notice  it. 
But  perhaps  she  did  detect  that  false  element  and 
it  did  not  repel  her.  An  irregular  education, 
strange  acquaintances,  the  constant  presence  of 
her  mother,  the  poverty  and  disorder  in  the  house 
— all  this,  beginning  with  the  very  freedom  which 
the  young  girl  enjoyed,  together  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  her  own  superiority  to  the  people 
who  surrounded  her,  had  developed  in  her  a  cer- 
tain half-scornful  carelessness  and  lack  of  exac- 
tion.   No  matter  what  happened — whether  Voni- 

46 


FIRST  LOVE 

faty  came  to  report  that  there  was  no  sugar,  or 
some  wretched  bit  of  gossip  came  to  light,  or  the 
visitors  got  into  a  quarrel  among  themselves,  she 
merely  shook  her  curls,  and  said:  "Nonsense!" 
— and  grieved  very  little  over  it. 

On  the  contrary,  all  my  blood  would  begin  to 
seethe  when  Malevsky  would  approach  her, 
swaying  his  body  cunningly  like  a  fox,  lean  ele- 
gantly over  the  back  of  her  chair  and  begin  to 
whisper  in  her  ear  with  a  conceited  and  challeng- 
ing smile,  while  she  would  fold  her  arms  on  her 
breast,  gaze  attentively  at  him  and  smile  also, 
shaking  her  head  the  while. 

"  What  possesses  you  to  receive  Malevsky?  "— 
I  asked  her  one  day. 

"  Why,  he  has  such  handsome  eyes," — she  re- 
plied.— "  But  that  is  no  business  of  yours." 

"  You  are  not  to  think  that  I  am  in  love  with 
him,"— she  said  to  me  on  another  occasion. — 
"  No ;  I  cannot  love  people  upon  whom  I  am 
forced  to  look  down.  I  must  have  some  one  who 
can  subdue  me.  .  .  .  And  I  shall  not  hit  upon 
such  an  one,  for  God  is  merciful!  I  shall  not 
spare  any  one  who  falls  into  my  paws— no,  no!" 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  will  never  fall 
in  love?  " 

"  And  how  about  you?  Don't  I  love  you?  "— 
she  said,  tapping  me  on  the  nose  with  the  tip  of 
her  glove. 

Yes,  Zinaida  made  great  fun  of  me.  For  the 
4,7 


FIRST  LOVE 

space  of  three  weeks  I  saw  her  every  day;  and 
what  was  there  that  she  did  not  do  to  me!  She 
came  to  us  rarely,  but  I  did  not  regret  that ;  in  our 
house  she  was  converted  into  a  young  lady,  a  Prin- 
cess,—and  I  avoided  her.  I  was  afraid  of  betray- 
ing myself  to  my  mother ;  she  was  not  at  all  well 
disposed  toward  Zinaida,  and  kept  a  disagreeable 
watch  on  us.  I  was  not  so  much  afraid  of  my  fa- 
ther; he  did  not  appear  to  notice  me,  and  talked 
little  with  her,  but  that  little  in  a  peculiarly  clever 
and  significant  manner.  I  ceased  to  work,  to 
read;  I  even  ceased  to  stroll  about  the  environs 
and  to  ride  on  horseback.  Like  a  beetle  tied  by 
the  leg,  I  hovered  incessantly  around  the  beloved 
wing ;  I  believe  I  would  have  liked  to  remain  there 

forever but  that  was  impossible.     My 

mother  grumbled  at  me,  and  sometimes  Zinaida 
herself  drove  me  out.  On  such  occasions  I  shut 
myself  up  in  my  own  room,  or  walked  off  to  the 
very  end  of  the  garden,  climbed  upon  the  sound 
remnant  of  a  tall  stone  hothouse,  and  dangling 
my  legs  over  the  wall,  I  sat  there  for  hours  and 
stared, — stared  without  seeing  anything.  White 
butterflies  lazily  flitted  among  the  nettles  beside 
me ;  an  audacious  sparrow  perched  not  far  off  on 
the  half -demolished  red  bricks  and  twittered  in  an 
irritating  manner,  incessantly  twisting  his  whole 
body  about  and  spreading  out  his  tail;  the  still 
distrustful  crows  now  and  then  emitted  a  caw,  as 
they  sat  high,  high  above  me  on  the  naked  crest 

48 


FIRST  LOVE 

of  a  birch-tree ;  the  sun  and  the  wind  played  softly 
through  its  sparse  branches;  the  chiming  of  the 
bells,  calm  and  melancholy,  at  the  Don  Monastery 
was  wafted  to  me  now  and  then, — and  I  sat  on, 
gazing  and  listening,  and  became  filled  with  a  cer- 
tain nameless  sensation  which  embraced  every- 
thing: sadness  and  joy,  and  a  presentiment  of  the 
future,  and  the  desire  and  the  fear  of  life.  But 
I  understood  nothing  at  the  time  of  all  that  which 
was  fermenting  within  me,  or  I  would  have  called 
it  all  by  one  name,  the  name  of  Zinaida. 

But  Zinaida  continued  to  play  with  me  as  a  cat 
plays  with  a  mouse.  Now  she  coquetted  with  me, 
and  I  grew  agitated  and  melted  with  emotion; 
now  she  repulsed  me,  and  I  dared  not  approach 
her,  dared  not  look  at  her. 

I  remember  that  she  was  very  cold  toward  me 
for  several  days  in  succession  and  I  thoroughly 
quailed,  and  when  I  timidly  ran  to  the  wing  to 
see  them,  I  tried  to  keep  near  the  old  Princess,  de- 
spite the  fact  that  she  was  scolding  and  screaming 
a  great  deal  just  at  that  time:  her  aiFairs  con- 
nected with  her  notes  of  hand  were  going  badly, 
and  she  had  also  had  two  scenes  with  the  police- 
captain  of  the  precinct. 

One  day  I  was  walking  through  the  garden, 
past  the  familiar  fence,  when  I  caught  sight  of 
Zinaida.  Propped  up  on  both  arms,  she  was  sit- 
ting motionless  on  the  grass.  I  tried  to  withdraw 
cautiously,  but  she  suddenly  raised  her  head  and 

49 


FIRST  LOVE 

made  an  imperious  sign  to  me.  I  became  petrified 
on  the  spot;  I  did  not  understand  her  the  first 
time.  She  repeated  her  sign.  I  immediately 
sprang  over  the  fence  and  ran  joyfully  to  her; 
but  she  stopped  me  with  a  look  and  pointed  to  the 
path  a  couple  of  paces  from  her.  In  my  confu- 
sion, not  knowing  what  to  do,  I  knelt  down  on  the 
edge  of  the  path.  She  was  so  pale,  such  bitter 
grief,  such  profound  weariness  were  revealed  in 
her  every  feature,  that  my  heart  contracted  within 
me,  and  I  involuntarily  murmured:  "  What  is  the 
matter  with  you? " 

Zinaida  put  out  her  hand,  plucked  a  blade  of 
grass,  bit  it,  and  tossed  it  away  as  far  as  she  could. 

"  Do  you  love  me  very  much?  " — she  inquired 
suddenly.-"  Yes? " 

I  made  no  answer, — and  what  answer  was  there 
for  me  to  make? 

"  Yes," — she  repeated,  gazing  at  me  as  before. 
—  "It  is  so.  They  are  the  same  eyes," — she 
added,  becoming  pensive,  and  covering  her  face 
with  her  hands. — "  Everything  has  become  repul- 
sive to  me," — she  whispered; — "  I  would  like  to 
go  to  the  end  of  the  world ;  I  cannot  endure  this, 
I  cannot  reconcile  myself.  .  .  .  And  what  is  in 
store  for  me?  ....  Akh,  I  am  heavy  at  heart 
....  my  God,  how  heavy  at  heart!  " 

"  Why?  "—I  timidly  inquired. 

Zinaida  did  not  answer  me  and  merely 
shrugged  her  shoulders.    I  continued  to  kneel  and 

50 


FIRST  LOVE 

to  gaze  at  her  with  profound  melancholy.  Every 
word  of  hers  fairly  cut  me  to  the  heart.  At  that 
moment,  I  think  I  would  willingly  have  given  my 
life  to  keep  her  from  grieving.  I  gazed  at  her, 
and  nevertheless,  not  understanding  why  she  was 
heavy  at  heart,  I  vividly  pictured  to  myself  how, 
in  a  fit  of  uncontrollable  sorrow,  she  had  suddenly 
gone  into  the  garden,  and  had  fallen  on  the  earth, 
as  though  she  had  been  mowed  down.  All  around 
was  bright  and  green;  the  breeze  was  rustling  in 
the  foliage  of  the  trees,  now  and  then  rocking  a 
branch  of  raspberry  over  Zinaida's  head.  Doves 
were  cooing  somewhere  and  the  bees  were  hum- 
ming as  they  flew  low  over  the  scanty  grass. 
Overhead  the  sky  shone  blue, — but  I  was  so 
sad 

"  Recite  some  poetry  to  me," — said  Zinaida  in 
a  low  voice,  leaning  on  her  elbow. — "  I  like  to 
hear  you  recite  verses.  You  make  them  go  in  a 
sing-song,  but  that  does  not  matter,  it  is  youth- 
ful. Recite  to  me:  ' On  the  Hills  of  Georgia.'— 
Only,  sit  down  first." 

I  sat  down  and  recited,  "  On  the  Hills  of 
Georgia." 

" '  That  it  is  impossible  not  to  love,'  "—repeated 
Zinaida.  —  "  That  is  why  poetry  is  so  nice;  it  says 
to  us  that  which  does  not  exist,  and  which  is  not 
only  better  than  what  does  exist,  but  even  more 
like  the  truth.  .  .  .  "  '  That  it  is  impossible  not  to 
love'  ?— I  would  like  to, but  cannot!  "—Again  she 

51 


FIRST   LOVE 

fell  silent  for  a  space,  then  suddenly  started  and 
rose  to  her  feet.  —  "  Come  along.  Maidanoff  is 
sitting  with  mamma ;  he  brought  his  poem  to  me, 
but  I  left  him.  He  also  is  embittered  now  .... 
how  can  it  be  helped?  Some  day  you  will  find  out 
....  but  you  must  not  be  angry  with  me!  " 

Zinaida  hastily  squeezed  my  hand,  and  ran  on 
ahead.  We  returned  to  the  wing.  Maidanoff  set 
to  reading  us  his  poem  of  "  The  Murderer," 
which  had  only  just  been  printed,  but  I  did  not 
listen.  He  shrieked  out  his  four-footed  iambics 
in  a  sing-song  voice;  the  rhymes  alternated  and 
jingled  like  sleigh-bells,  hollow  and  loud;  but  I 
kept  staring  all  the  while  at  Zinaida,  and  striving 
to  understand  the  meaning  of  her  strange  words. 

"Or,  perchance,  a  secret  rival 
Has  unexpectedly  subjugated  thee?" 

suddenly  exclaimed  Maidanoff  through  his  nose 
— and  my  eyes  and  Zinaida's  met.  She  dropped 
hers  and  blushed  faintl3\  I  saw  that  she  was 
blushing,  and  turned  cold  with  fright.  I  had  been 
jealous  before,  but  only  at  that  moment  did  the 
thought  that  she  had  fallen  in  love  flash  through 
my  mind.    "  My  God !    She  is  in  love !  " 

X 

My  real  tortures  began  from  that  moment.  I 
cudgelled  my  brains,  I  pondered  and  pondered 
again,  and  watched  Zinaida  importunately,  but 

52 


FIRST  LOVE 

secretly,  as  far  as  possible.  A  change  had  taken 
place  in  her,  that  was  evident.  She  took  to  going 
off  alone  to  walk,  and  walked  a  long  while. 
Sometimes  she  did  not  show  herself  to  her  visi- 
tors; she  sat  for  hours  together  in  her  cham- 
ber. This  had  not  been  her  habit  hitherto. 
Suddenly  I  became — or  it  seefned  to  me  that  I 
became — extremely  penetrating.  "  Is  it  he?  Or 
is  it  not  he?  " — I  asked  myself,  as  in  trepidation 
I  mentally  ran  from  one  of  her  admirers  to  an- 
other. Count  Malevsky  ( although  I  felt  ashamed 
to  admit  it  for  Zinaida's  sake)  privately  seemed 
to  me  more  dangerous  than  the  others. 

My  powers  of  observation  extended  no  further 
than  the  end  of  my  own  nose,  and  my  dissimula- 
tion probably  failed  to  deceive  any  one;  at  all 
events.  Doctor  Liishin  speedily  saw  through  me. 
Moreover,  he  also  had  undergone  a  change  of  late ; 
he  had  grown  thin,  he  laughed  as  frequently  as 
ever,  but  somehow  it  was  in  a  duller,  more  spite- 
ful, a  briefer  way; — an  involuntary,  nervous  irri- 
tability had  replaced  his  former  light  irony  and 
feigned  cynicism. 

"  Why  are  you  forever  tagging  on  here,  young 
man?  " — he  said  to  me  one  day,  when  he  was  left 
alone  with  me  in  the  Zasyekins'  drawing-room. 
(The  young  Princess  had  not  yet  returned  from 
her  stroll  and  the  shrill  voice  of  the  old  Princess 
was  resounding  in  the  upper  story;  she  was 
wrangling  with  her  maid.) — "  You  ought  to  be 

53 


FIRST   LOVE 

studying  your  lessons,  working  while  you  are 
young;— but  instead  of  that,  what  are  you  do- 
ing? " 

"  You  cannot  tell  whether  I  work  at  home," — I 
retorted  not  without  arrogance,  but  also  not  with- 
out confusion. 

"Much  work  you  do!  That's  not  what  you 
have  in  your  head.  Well,  I  will  not  dispute  .  .  . 
at  your  age,  that  is  in  the  natural  order  of  things. 
But  your  choice  is  far  from  a  happy  one.  Can't 
you  see  what  sort  of  a  house  this  is?  " 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"— I  remarked. 

"  You  don't  understand  me?  So  much  the 
worse  for  you.  I  regard  it  as  my  duty  to  warn 
you.  Fellows  like  me,  old  bachelors,  may  sit  here : 
what  harm  will  it  do  us?  We  are  a  hardened  lot. 
You  can't  pierce  our  hide,  but  your  skin  is  still 
tender;  the  air  here  is  injurious  for  you, — believe 
me,  you  may  become  infected." 

"  How  so? " 

"  Because  you  may.  Are  you  healthy  now? 
Are  you  in  a  normal  condition?  Is  what  you  are 
feeling  useful  to  you,  good  for  you?  " 

"But  what  am  I  feeling?  "—said  I;— and  in 
my  secret  soul  I  admitted  that  the  doctor  was 
right. 

"  Eh,  young  man,  young  man,"— pursued  the 
doctor,  with  an  expression  as  though  something 
extremely  insulting  to  me  were  contained  in  those 
two  words; — "there  's  no  use  in  your  dissimulat- 

54 


FIRST  LOVE 

ing,  for  what  you  have  in  your  soul  you  still  show 
in  your  face,  thank  God !  But  what 's  the  use  of 
arguing?  I  would  not  come  hither  myself,  if . . . ." 
(the  doctor  set  his  teeth)  . ..."  if  I  were  not  such 
an  eccentric  fellow.  Only  this  is  what  amazes  me 
—how  you,  with  your  intelligence,  can  fail  to  see 
what  is  going  on  around  you." 

"  But  what  is  going  on?  "—I  interposed,  prick- 
ing up  my  ears. 

The  doctor  looked  at  me  with  a  sort  of  sneer- 
ing compassion. 

"  A  nice  person  I  am,"— said  he,  as  though 
speaking  to  himself.—"  What  possessed  me  to 
say  that  to  him.  In  a  word,"— he  added,  raising 
his  voice,— "  I  repeat  to  you:  the  atmosphere 
here  is  not  good  for  you.  You  find  it  pleasant 
here,  and  no  wonder!  And  the  scent  of  a  hot- 
house is  pleasant  also — but  one  cannot  Hve  in 
it!  Hey!  hearken  to  me,— set  to  work  again  on 
KaidanofF." 

The  old  Princess  entered  and  began  to  com- 
plain to  the  doctor  of  toothache.  Then  Zinaida 
made  her  appearance. 

"  Here,"— added  the  old  Princess,—"  scold 
her,  doctor,  do.  She  drinks  iced  water  all  day 
long;  is  that  healthy  for  her,  with  her  weak 
chest? " 

"  Why  do  you  do  that?  "—inquired  Lushin. 

"  But  what  result  can  it  have? " 

"  What  result?    You  may  take  cold  and  die." 
55 


FIRST  LOVE 

"Really?  Is  it  possible?  Well,  all  right  — 
that  just  suits  me!  " 

"You  don't  say  so!  "—growled  the  doctor. 
The  old  Princess  went  away. 

"I  do  say  so,"— retorted  Zinaida.— "Is  living 
such  a  cheerful  thing?  Look  about  you.  .  .  Well 
—is  it  nice?  Or  do  you  think  that  I  do  not  under- 
stand it,  do  not  feel  it?  It  affords  me  pleasure  to 
drink  iced  water,  and  you  can  seriously  assure  me 
that  such  a  life  is  worth  too  much  for  me  to  im- 
peril it  for  a  moment's  pleasure— I  do  not  speak 
of  happiness." 

"Well,    yes,"— remarked    Liishin:—"  caprice 

and  independence Those  two  words  sum  you 

up  completely;  your  whole  nature  lies  in  those 
two  words." 

Zinaida  burst  into  a  nervous  laugh. 

"  You  're  too  late  by  one  mail,  my  dear  doctor. 
You  observe  badly;  you  are  falling  behind.— Put 
on  your  spectacles.— I  am  in  no  mood  for  ca- 
prices now;   how  jolly  to  play  pranks  on  you  or 

on  myself !— and  as  for  independence M'sieu 

Voldemar,"— added  Zinaida,  suddenly  stamping 
her  foot,—"  don't  wear  a  melancholy  face.  I 
cannot  endure  to  have  people  commiserating  me.'* 
—  She  hastily  withdrew. 

"  This  atmosphere  is  injurious,  injurious  to 
you,  young  man,"— said  Liishin  to  me  once  more. 


56 


FIRST  LOVE 


XI 


On  the  evening  of  that  same  day  the  customary- 
visitors  assembled  at  the  Zasyekins' ;  I  was  among 
the  number. 

The  conversation  turned  on  Maidanoff 's  poem ; 
Zinaida  candidly  praised  it.—"  But  do  you  know 
what?"— she  said:—"  If  I  were  a  poet,  I  would 
select  other  subjects.  Perhaps  this  is  all  non- 
sense, but  strange  thoughts  sometimes  come  into 
my  head,  especially  when  I  am  wakeful  toward 
morning,  when  the  sky  is  beginning  to  turn  pink 
and  grey.— I  would,  for  example  ....  You  will 
not  laugh  at  me?  " 

"  No!  No!  "—we  all  exclaimed  with  one  voice. 

"  I  would  depict,"— she  went  on,  crossing  her 
arms  on  her  breast,  and  turning  her  eyes  aside,— 
"  a  whole  company  of  young  girls,  by  night,  in  a 
big  boat,  on  a  tranquil  river.  The  moon  is  shin- 
ing, and  they  are  all  in  white  and  wear  garlands 
of  white  flowers,  and  they  are  singing,  you  know, 
something  in  the  nature  of  a  hymn." 

"  I  understand,  I  understand,  go  on,*'  —said 
Maidanoff  significantly  and  dreamily. 

"  Suddenly  there  is  a  noise— laughter,  torches, 
tambourines  on  the  shore.  ...  It  is  a  throng  of 
bacchantes  running  with  songs  and  outcries.  It  is 
your  business  to  draw  the  picture,  Mr.  Poet .... 

57 


FIRST  LOVE 

only  I  would  like  to  have  the  torches  red  and  very- 
smoky,  and  that  the  eyes  of  the  bacchantes  should 
gleam  beneath  their  wreaths,  and  that  the  wreaths 
should  be  dark.  Don't  forget  also  tiger-skins  and 
cups— and  gold,  a  great  deal  of  gold." 

"  But  where  is  the  gold  to  be?  "  inquired  Mai- 
danoiF,  tossing  back  his  lank  hair  and  inflating  his 
nostrils. 

"Where?  On  the  shoulders,  the  hands,  the 
feet,  everywhere.  They  say  that  in  ancient  times 
women  wore  golden  rings  on  their  ankles. — The 
bacchantes  call  the  young  girls  in  the  boat  to 
come  to  them.  The  girls  have  ceased  to  chant 
their  hymn,— they  cannot  go  on  with  it,— but  they 
do  not  stir;  the  river  drifts  them  to  the  shore. 
And  now  suddenly  one  of  them  rises  quietly.  .  .  . 
This  must  be  well  described :  how  she  rises  quietly 
in  the  moonlight,  and  how  startled  her  compan- 
ions are.  .  .  .  She  has  stepped  over  the  edge  of 
the  boat,  the  bacchantes  have  surrounded  her, 
they  have  dashed  off  into  the  night,  into  the 
gloom.  .  .  .  Present  at  this  point  smoke  in  clouds ; 
and  everything  has  become  thoroughly  confused. 
Nothing  is  to  be  heard  but  their  whimpering,  and 
her  wreath  has  been  left  lying  on  the  shore." 

Zinaida  ceased  speaking.  "  Oh,  she  is  in  love  I  " 
— I  thought  again. 

"  Is  that  all?  "—asked  MaidanofF. 

"  That  is  all,"— she  replied. 

"  That  cannot  be  made  the  subject  of  an  entire 
58 


FIRST  LOVE 

poem,"— he  remarked  pompously,— *' but  I  will 
utilise  your  idea  for  some  lyrical  verses." 

"  In  the  romantic  vein?  "—asked  Malevsky. 

"  Of  course,  in  the  romantic  vein— in  Byron's 
style." 

"  But  in  my  opinion,  Hugo  is  better  than  By- 
ron,"—remarked  the  young  Count,  carelessly:— 
"  he  is  more  interesting." 

"  Hugo  is  a  writer  of  the  first  class,"— rejoined 
Maidanoff,  "  and  my  friend  Tonkosheeff ,  in  his 
Spanish  romance, '  El  Trovador  '...." 

"  Ah,  that  's  the  book  with  the  question-marks 
turned  upside  down?  "—interrupted  Zinaida. 

"  Yes.  That  is  the  accepted  custom  among  the 
Spaniards.  I  was  about  to  say  that  Tonko- 
sheeiF " 

"  Come  now !  You  will  begin  to  wrangle  again 
about  classicism  and  romanticism,"— Zinaida  in- 
terrupted him  again.—"  Let  us  rather  play  .  .  .  ." 

"  At  forfeits?  "—put  in  Lushin. 

"  No,  forfeits  is  tiresome ;  but  at  comparisons." 
(This  game  had  been  invented  by  Zinaida  her- 
self; some  object  was  named,  and  each  person 
tried  to  compare  it  with  something  or  other,  and 
the  one  who  matched  the  thing  with  the  best  com- 
parison received  a  prize.)  She  went  to  the  win- 
dow. The  sun  had  just  set;  long,  crimson  clouds 
hung  high  aloft  in  the  sky. 

"  What  are  those  clouds  like?  "—inquired  Zi- 
naida and,  without  waiting  for  our  answers,  she 

59 


FIRST  LOVE 

said: — "  I  think  that  they  resemble  those  crimson 
sails  which  were  on  Cleopatra's  golden  ship,  when 
she  went  to  meet  Antony.  You  were  telling  me 
about  that  not  long  ago,  do  you  remember,  Mai- 
danoif  ? " 

All  of  us,  like  Polonius  in  "  Hamlet,"  decided 
that  the  clouds  reminded  us  precisely  of  those 
sails,  and  that  none  of  us  could  find  a  better  com- 
parison. 

"  And  how  old  was  Antony  at  that  time? "  — 
asked  Zinaida. 

"  He  was  assuredly  still  a  young  man,"— re- 
marked Malevsky. 

"  Yes,  he  was  young,"— assented  Maidanoff 
confidently. 

"  Excuse  me,"— exclaimed  Liishin,— "  he  was 
over  forty  years  of  age." 

"  Over  forty  years  of  age,"— repeated  Zinaida, 
darting  a  swift  glance  at  him.  .  .  . 

I  soon  went  home.—"  She  is  in  love,"  my  lips 
whispered  involuntarily.  ..."  But  with  whom?  " 


XII 

The  days  passed  by.  Zinaida  grew  more  and 
more  strange,  more  and  more  incomprehensible. 
One  day  I  entered  her  house  and  found  her  sitting 
on  a  straw-bottomed  chair,  with  her  head  pressed 
against  the  sharp  edge  of  a  table.    She  straight- 

60 


FIRST  LOVE 

ened  up  ...  .  her  face  was  again  all  bathed  in 
tears. 

"Ah!  It's  you!"— she  said,  with  a  harsh 
grimace. — "  Come  hither." 

I  went  up  to  her:  she  laid  her  hand  on  my  head 
and,  suddenly  seizing  me  by  the  hair,  began  to 
pull  it. 

"  It  hurts  "...  I  said  at  last. 

"Ah!  It  hurts!  And  doesn't  it  hurt  me? 
Does  n't  it  hurt  me?  " — she  repeated. 

"Ai!"— she  suddenly  cried,  perceiving  that 
she  had  pulled  out  a  small  tuft  of  my  hair. — 
"  What  have  I  done?  Poor  M'sieu  Voldemar!  " 
She  carefully  straightened  out  the  hairs  she  had 
plucked  out,  wound  them  round  her  finger,  and 
twisted  them  into  a  ring. 

"  I  will  put  your  hair  in  my  locket  and  wear 
it," — she  said,  and  tears  glistened  in  her  eyes. — 
"  Perhaps  that  will  comfort  you  a  Httle  ....  but 
now,  good-bye." 

I  returned  home  and  found  an  unpleasant  state 
of  things  there.  A  scene  was  in  progress  between 
my  father  and  my  mother;  she  was  upbraiding 
him  for  something  or  other,  while  he,  according  to 
his  wont,  was  maintaining  a  cold,  polite  silence — 
and  speedily  went  away.  I  could  not  hear  what 
my  mother  was  talking  about,  neither  did  I  care 
to  know:  I  remember  only,  that,  at  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  scene,  she  ordered  me  to  be  called  to 
her  boudoir,  and  expressed  herself  with  great  dis- 

61 


FIRST  LOVE 

satisfaction  about  my  frequent  visits  at  the  house 
of  the  old  Princess,  who  was,  according  to  her  as- 
sertions, une  femme  capable  de  tout.  I  kissed  her 
hand  ( I  always  did  that  when  I  wanted  to  put  an 
end  to  the  conversation) ,  and  went  oiF  to  my  own 
room.  Zinaida's  tears  had  completely  discom- 
fited me;  I  positively  did  not  know  what  to 
think,  and  was  ready  to  cry  myself:  I  was  still  a 
child,  in  spite  of  my  sixteen  years.  I  thought  no 
more  of  Malevsky,  although  ByelovzoroiF  be- 
came more  and  more  menacing  every  day,  and 
glared  at  the  shifty  Count  like  a  wolf  at  a  sheep ; 
but  I  was  not  thinking  of  anything  or  of  any- 
body. I  lost  myself  in  conjectures  and  kept  seek- 
ing isolated  spots.  I  took  a  special  fancy  to  the 
ruins  of  the  hothouse.  I  could  clamber  up  on  the 
high  wall,  seat  myself,  and  sit  there  such  an  un- 
happy, lonely,  and  sad  youth  that  I  felt  sorry  for 
myself — and  how  delightful  those  mournful  sen- 
sations were,  how  I  gloated  over  them !  .  .  . 

One  day,  I  was  sitting  thus  on  the  wall,  gazing 
off  into  the  distance  and  listening  to  the  chiming 
of  the  bells  ....  when  suddenly  something  ran 
over  me — not  a  breeze  exactly,  not  a  shiver,  but 
something  resembling  a  breath,  the  consciousness 
of  some  one's  proximity.  ...  I  dropped  my  eyes. 
Below  me,  in  a  light  grey  gown,  with  a  pink  para- 
sol on  her  shoulder,  Zinaida  was  walking  hastily 
along  the  road.    She  saw  me,  halted,  and,  pushing 

62 


FIRST  LOVE 

up  the  brim  of  her  straw  hat,  raised  her  velvety 
eyes  to  mine. 

"  What  are  you  doing  there,  on  such  a  height?  " 
— she  asked  me,  with  a  strange  sort  of  smile. — 
"  There  now,"— she  went  on,—"  you  are  always 
declaring  that  you  love  me— jump  down  to  me 
here  on  the  road  if  you  really  do  love  me." 

Before  the  words  were  well  out  of  Zinaida's 
mouth  I  had  flown  down,  exactly  as  though  some 
one  had  given  me  a  push  from  behind.  The  wall 
was  about  two  fathoms  high.  I  landed  on  the 
ground  with  my  feet,  but  the  shock  was  so  violent 
that  I  could  not  retain  my  balance;  I  fell,  and 
lost  consciousness  for  a  moment.  When  I  came 
to  myself  I  felt,  without  opening  my  eyes,  that 
Zinaida  was  by  my  side. — "  My  dear  boy," — she 
was  saying,  as  she  bent  over  me— and  tender  anxi- 
ety was  audible  in  her  voice — "  how  couldst  thou 
do  that,  how  couldst  thou  obey?  ....  I  love  thee 
....  rise. 

Her  breast  was  heaving  beside  me,  her  hands 
were  touching  my  head,  and  suddenly — what  were 
my  sensations  then! — her  soft,  fresh  lips  began 
to  cover  my  whole  face  with  kisses  ....  they 
touched  my  lips.  .  .  .  But  at  this  point  Zinaida 
probably  divined  from  the  expression  of  my  face 
that  I  had  already  recovered  consciousness,  al- 
though I  still  did  not  open  my  eyes— and  swiftly 
rising  to  her  feet,  she  said:—"  Come,  get  up,  you 

63 


FIRST  LOVE 

rogue,  you  foolish  fellow !  Why  do  you  lie  there 
in  the  dust?  "—I  got  up. 

"  Give  me  my  parasol," — said  Zinaida. — "  I 
have  thrown  it  somewhere;   and  don't  look  at  me 

like  that what  nonsense  is  this?    You  are 

hurt?  You  have  burned  yourself  with  the  nettles, 
I  suppose.  Don't  look  at  me  like  that,  I  tell 
you.  . . .  Why,  he  understands  nothing,  he  doesn't 
answer  me,"— she  added,  as  though  speaking  to 
herself.  ..."  Go  home,  M'sieu  Voldemar,  brush 
yourself  oiF,  and  don't  dare  to  follow  me— if  you 
do  I  shall  be  very  angry,  and  I  shall  never 
again  .  .  .  ." 

She  did  not  finish  her  speech  and  walked  briskly 
away,  while  I  sat  down  by  the  roadside  .  .  .  my 
legs  would  not  support  me.  The  nettles  had 
stung  my  hands,  my  back  ached,  and  my  head  was 
reeling;  but  the  sensation  of  beatitude  which  I 
then  experienced  has  never  since  been  repeated  in 
my  life.  It  hung  like  a  sweet  pain  in  all  my  limbs 
and  broke  out  at  last  in  rapturous  leaps  and  ex- 
clamations. As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  was  still  a 
child. 

XIII 

I  WAS  so  happy  and  proud  all  that  day;  I  pre- 
served so  vividly  on  my  visage  the  feeling  of  Zi- 
naida's  kisses ;  I  recalled  her  every  word  with  such 
ecstasy ;  I  so  cherished  my  unexpected  happiness 
that  I  even  became  frightened;  I  did  not  even 

64 


FIRST  LOVE 

wish  to  see  her  who  was  the  cause  of  those  new 
sensations.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  ask 
nothing  more  of  Fate,  that  now  I  must  "  take 
and  draw  a  deep  breath  for  the  last  time,  and 
die."  On  the  other  hand,  when  I  set  off  for  the 
wing  next  day,  I  felt  a  great  agitation,  which  I 
vainly  endeavoured  to  conceal  beneath  the  dis- 
creet facial  ease  suitable  for  a  man  who  wishes  to 
let  it  be  understood  that  he  knows  how  to  keep  a 
secret.  Zinaida  received  me  very  simply,  without 
any  emotion,  merely  shaking  her  finger  at  me  and 
asking:  Had  I  any  bruises?  All  my  discreet  ease 
of  manner  and  mysteriousness  instantly  disap- 
peared, and  along  with  them  my  agitation.  Of 
course  I  had  not  expected  anything  in  particular, 
but  Zinaida's  composure  acted  on  me  like  a  dash 
of  cold  water.  I  understood  that  I  was  a  child  in 
her  eyes — and  my  heart  waxed  very  heavy!  Zi- 
naida paced  to  and  fro  in  the  room,  smiling 
swiftly  every  time  she  glanced  at  me;    but  her 

thoughts  were  far  away,  I  saw  that  clearly 

"  Shall  I  allude  to  what  happened  yesterday  my- 
self,"—  I  thought;— "  shall  I  ask  her  where  she 
was  going  in  such  haste,  in  order  to  find  out, 
definitively?  "  .  .  .  .  but  I  merely  waved  my  hand 
in  despair  and  sat  down  in  a  corner. 

Byelovzoroff  entered;  I  was  delighted  to  see 
him. 

"  I  have  not  found  you  a  gentle  saddle-horse," 
— he  began  in  a  surly  tone;— *' Freitag  vouches 

65 


FIRST   LOVE 

to  me  for  one — but  I  am  not  convinced.     I  am 
afraid." 

"  Of  what  are  you  afraid,  allow  me  to  in- 
quire ? "  asked  Zinaida. 

"  Of  what?  Why,  you  don't  know  how  to  ride. 
God  forbid  that  any  accident  should  happen! 
And  what  has  put  that  freak  into  your  head?  " 

"  Come,  that 's  my  affair,  M'sieu  my  wild  beast. 
In  that  case,  I  will  ask  Piotr  Vasilievitch  "  .  .  .  . 
(My  father  was  called  Piotr  Vasilievitch  ....  I 
was  amazed  that  she  should  mention  his  name  so 
lightly  and  freely,  exactly  as  though  she  were 
convinced  of  his  readiness  to  serve  her. ) 

"You  don't  say  so!" — retorted  Byelovzoroff. 
— "  Is  it  with  him  that  you  wish  to  ride?  " 

"  With  him  or  some  one  else,  —that  makes  no 
difference  to  you.    Only  not  with  you." 

"  Not  with  me," — said  Byelovzoroff. — "  As 
you  like.  What  does  it  matter?  I  will  get  you 
the  horse." 

"  But  see  to  it  that  it  is  not  a  cow-like  beast.  I 
M^arn  you  in  advance  that  I  mean  to  gallop." 

"  Gallop,  if  you  wish.  .  .  .  But  is  it  with  Malev- 
sky  that  you  are  going  to  ride?  " 

"  And  why  should  n't  I  ride  with  him,  warrior? 
Come,  quiet  down.  I  '11  take  you  too.  You  know 
that  for  me  Malevsky  is  now— fie!  "—She  shook 
her  head. 

"  You  say  that  just  to  console  me," — growled 
Byelovzoroff. 

66 


FIRST  LOVE 

Zinaida  narrowed  her  eyes. — "Does  that  con- 
sole you? .  .  oh  . .  oh  . .  .  oh  . .  warrior!  "—she  said 
at  last,  as  though  unable  to  find  any  other  word.— 
"  And  would  you  like  to  ride  with  us,  M'sieu  Vol- 
demar?  " 

"  I  'm  not  fond  of  riding  ....  in  a  large  party," 
...  I  muttered,  without  raising  my  eyes. 

"  You  prefer  a  tete-a-tete?  .  .  .  Well,  every  one 
to  his  taste," — she  said,  with  a  sigh. — "  But  go, 
ByelovzorofF,  make  an  effort.  I  want  the  horse 
for  to-morrow." 

"  Yes;  but  where  am  I  to  get  the  money?  " — 
interposed  the  old  Princess. 

Zinaida  frowned. 

"  I  am  not  asking  any  from  you;  Byelovzoroff 
will  trust  me." 

"  He  will,  he  will,"  ....  grumbled  the  old  Prin- 
cess—and suddenly  screamed  at  the  top  of  her 
voice : — "  Dunyashka !  " 

"  Maman,  I  made  you  a  present  of  a  bell," — re- 
marked the  young  Princess. 

"  Dunyashka!  " — repeated  the  old  woman. 

ByelovzorofF  bowed  himself  out;  I  went  out 
with  him.    Zinaida  did  not  detain  me. 

XIV 

I  ROSE  early  the  next  morning,  cut  myself  a  staff, 
and  went  off  beyond  the  city  barrier.  "  I  '11  have 
a  walk  and  banish  my  grief,"— I  said  to  myself. 

67 


FIRST  LOVE 

It  was  a  beautiful  day,  brilliant  but  not  too  hot; 
a  cheerful,  fresh  breeze  was  blowing  over  the 
earth  and  rustling  and  playing  moderately,  keep- 
ing in  constant  motion  and  agitating  nothing. 
For  a  long  time  I  roamed  about  on  the  hills  and 
in  the  forests.  I  did  not  feel  happy;  I  had  left 
home  with  the  intention  of  surrendering  myself 
to  melancholy; — but  youth,  the  fine  weather,  the 
fresh  air,  the  diversion  of  brisk  pedestrian  exer- 
ercise,  the  delight  of  lying  in  solitude  on  the  thick 
grass,  produced  their  effect ;  the  memory  of  those 
unforgettable  words,  of  those  kisses,  again  thrust 
themselves  into  my  soul.  It  was  pleasant  to  me 
to  think  that  Zinaida  could  not,  nevertheless,  fail 
to  do  justice  to  my  decision,  to  my  heroism.  .  .  . 
*'  Others  are  better  for  her  than  I,"— I  thought: 
— "  so  be  it!  On  the  other  hand,  the  others  only 
say  what  they  will  do,  but  I  have  done  it!  And 
what  else  am  I  capable  of  doing  for  her? " — My 
imagination  began  to  ferment.  I  began  to  pic- 
ture to  myself  how  I  would  save  her  from  the 
hands  of  enemies;  how,  all  bathed  in  blood,  I 
would  wrest  her  out  of  prison;  how  I  would 
die  at  her  feet.  I  recalled  a  picture  which  hung 
in  our  drawing-room  of  Malek-Adel  carrying 
off  Matilda — and  thereupon  became  engrossed 
in  the  appearance  of  a  big,  speckled  woodpecker 
which  was  busily  ascending  the  slender  trunk 
of  a  birch-tree,  and  uneasily  peering  out  from 
behind  it,  now  on  the  right,  now  on  the  left, 

68 


FIRST  LOVE 

like  a  musician   from  behind  the  neck   of  his 
bass-viol. 

Then  I  began  to  sing:  "  Not  the  white  snows," 
— and  ran  off  into  the  romance  which  was  well 
known  at  that  period,  "  I  will  await  thee  when  the 
playful  breeze  "  ;  then  I  began  to  recite  aloud 
Ermak's  invocation  to  the  stars  in  KhomyakofF's 
tragedy ;  I  tried  to  compose  something  in  a  senti- 
mental vein;  I  even  thought  out  the  line  where- 
with the  whole  poem  was  to  conclude:  "  Oh,  Zi- 
naida!  Zinaida! "— But  it  came  to  nothing. 
Meanwhile,  dinner-time  was  approaching.  I  de- 
scended into  the  valley;  a  narrow,  sandy  path 
wound  through  it  and  led  toward  the  town.  I 
strolled  along  that  path.  .  .  .  The  dull  tramp- 
ling of  horses'  hoofs  resounded  behind  me.  I 
glanced  round,  involuntarily  came  to  a  stand- 
still and  pulled  off  my  cap.  I  beheld  my 
father  and  Zinaida.  They  were  riding  side 
by  side.  My  father  was  saying  something  to 
her,  bending  his  whole  body  toward  her, 
and  resting  his  hand  on  the  neck  of  her  horse; 
he  was  smiling.  Zinaida  was  listening  to  him  in 
silence,  with  her  eyes  severely  downcast  and  lips 
compressed.  At  first  I  saw  only  them;  it  was 
not  until  several  moments  later  that  ByelovzorofF 
made  his  appearance  from  round  a  turn  in  the 
valley,  dressed  in  hussar  uniform  with  pelisse,  and 
mounted  on  a  foam-flecked  black  horse.  The 
good  steed  was  tossing  his  head,  snorting  and  cur- 

69 


FIRST  LOVE 

vetting;  the  rider  was  both  reining  him  in  and 
spurring  him  on.  I  stepped  aside.  My  father 
gathered  up  his  reins  and  moved  away  from  Zi- 
naida;  she  slowly  raised  her  eyes  to  his— and  both 
set  off  at  a  gallop.  .  .  .  ByelovzorofF  dashed  head- 
long after  them  with  clanking  sword.  "  He  is  as 
red  as  a  crab,"— I  thought,—"  and  she.  .  .  .  Why 
is  she  so  pale?  She  has  been  riding  the  whole 
morning— and  yet  she  is  pale?  " 

I  redoubled  my  pace  and  managed  to  reach 
home  just  before  dinner.  My  father  was  already 
sitting,  re-dressed,  well-washed  and  fresh,  beside 
my  mother's  arm-chair,  and  reading  aloud  to  her 
in  his  even,  sonorous  voice,  the  feuilleton  of  the 
Journal  des  Debats;  but  my  mother  was  listen- 
ing to  him  inattentively  and,  on  catching  sight  of 
me,  inquired  where  I  had  been  all  day,  adding, 
that  she  did  not  like  to  have  me  prowling  about 
God  only  knew  where  and  God  only  knew  with 
whom.  "But  I  have  been  walking  alone," — I 
was  on  the  point  of  replying;  but  I  glanced  at 
my  father  and  for  some  reason  or  other  held  my 
peace. 

XV 

During  the  course  of  the  next  five  or  six  days  I 
hardly  saw  Zinaida;  she  gave  it  out  that  she  was 
ill,  which  did  not,  however,  prevent  the  habitual 
visitors  from  presenting  themselves  at  the  wing 
—"to  take  their  turn  in  attendance,"— as  they 

70 


FIRST  LOVE 

expressed  it;— all  except  MaidanofF,  who  imme- 
diately became  dispirited  as  soon  as  he  had  no 
opportunity  to  go  into  raptures.  ByelovzorofF 
sat  morosely  in  a  corner,  all  tightly  buttoned  up 
and  red  in  the  face ;  on  Count  Malevsky's  delicate 
visage  hovered  constantly  a  sort  of  evil  smile;  he 
really  had  fallen  into  disfavour  with  Zinaida  and 
listened  with  particular  pains  to  the  old  Princess, 
and  drove  with  her  to  the  Governor-General's  in 
a  hired  carriage.  But  this  trip  proved  unsuccess- 
ful and  even  resulted  in  an  unpleasantness  for 
Malevsky :  he  was  reminded  of  some  row  with  cer- 
tain Puteisk  officers,  and  was  compelled,  in  self- 
justification,  to  say  that  he  was  inexperienced  at 
the  time.  Lushin  came  twice  a  day,  but  did  not 
remain  long.  I  was  somewhat  afraid  of  him  after 
our  last  explanation  and,  at  the  same  time,  I  felt 
a  sincere  attachment  for  him.  One  day  he  went 
for  a  stroll  with  me  in  the  Neskiitchny  Park,  was 
very  good-natured  and  amiable,  imparted  to  me 
the  names  and  properties  of  various  plants  and 
flowers,  and  suddenly  exclaimed — without  rhyme 
or  reason,  as  the  saying  is — as  he  smote  himself  on 
the  brow:  "  And  I,  like  a  fool,  thought  she  was  a 
coquette !  Evidently,  it  is  sweet  to  sacrifice  one's 
self — for  some  people!  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  say  by  that? " — I 
asked. 

"  I  don't  mean  to  say  anything  to  you," — re- 
turned Lushin,  abruptly. 

71 


FIRST  LOVE 

Zinaida  avoided  me;  my  appearance — I  could 
not  but  perceive  the  fact— produced  an  unpleas- 
ant impression  on  her.  She  involuntarily  turned 
away  from  me  ...  .  involuntarily;  that  was 
what  was  bitter,  that  was  what  broke  my  heart! 
But  there  was  no  help  for  it  and  I  tried  to  keep 
out  of  her  sight  and  only  stand  guard  over  her 
from  a  distance,  in  which  I  was  not  always  suc- 
cessful. As  before,  something  incomprehensible 
was  taking  place  with  her;  her  face  had  become 
different— she  was  altogether  a  different  person. 
I  was  particularly  struck  by  the  change  which  had 
taken  place  in  her  on  a  certain  warm,  tranquil 
evening.  I  was  sitting  on  a  low  bench  under  a 
wide-spreading  elder-bush;  I  loved  that  httle 
nook ;  the  window  of  Zinaida's  chamber  was  visi- 
ble thence.  I  was  sitting  there ;  over  my  head,  in 
the  darkened  foliage,  a  tiny  bird  was  rummaging 
fussily  about;  a  great  cat  with  outstretched  back 
had  stolen  into  the  garden,  and  the  first  beetles 
were  booming  heavily  in  the  air,  which  was  still 
transparent  although  no  longer  light.  I  sat  there 
and  stared  at  the  window,  and  waited  to  see  whe- 
ther some  one  would  not  open  it:  and,  in  fact,  it 
did  open,  and  Zinaida  made  her  appearance  in  it. 
She  wore  a  white  gown,  and  she  herself— her  face, 
her  shoulders  and  her  hands— was  pale  to  white- 
ness. She  remained  for  a  long  time  motionless, 
and  for  a  long  time  stared,  without  moving, 
straight  in  front  of  her  from  beneath  her  con- 

72 


FIRST  LOVE 

tracted  brows.  I  did  not  recognise  that  look  in 
her.  Then  she  clasped  her  hands  very,  very 
tightly,  raised  them  to  her  lips,  to  her  forehead— 
and  suddenly,  unlocking  her  fingers,  pushed 
her  hair  away  from  her  ears,  shook  it  back  and, 
throwing  her  head  downward  from  above  with  a 
certain  decisiveness,  she  shut  the  window  with  a 
bang. 

Two  days  later  she  met  me  in  the  park.  I  tried 
to  step  aside,  but  she  stopped  me. 

*'  Give  me  your  hand,"— she  said  to  me,  with 
her  former  affection. — "  It  is  a  long  time  since 
you  and  I  have  had  a  chat." 

I  looked  at  her;  her  eyes  were  beaming  softly 
and  her  face  was  smiling,  as  though  athwart  a 
mist. 

"  Are  you  still  ailing?  "—I  asked  her. 

"  No,  everything  has  passed  off  now,"— she  re- 
plied, breaking  off  a  small,  red  rose. — "  I  am  a 
little  tired,  but  that  will  pass  off  also." 

"  And  will  you  be  once  more  the  same  as  you 
used  to  be?  "—I  queried. 

Zinaida  raised  the  rose  to  her  face,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  as  though  the  reflection  of  the  bril- 
liant petals  fell  upon  her  cheeks.—"  Have  I 
changed?  "—she  asked  me. 

"  Yes,  you  have  changed," — I  replied  in  a  low 
voice. 

*'  I  was  cold  toward  you,— I  know  that,"— be- 
gan Zinaida; — "  but  you  must  not  pay  any  heed 

73 


FIRST  LOVE 

to  that.  ...  I  could  not  do  otherwise.  .  .  . 
Come,  what 's  the  use  of  talking  about  that?  " 

"  You  do  not  want  me  to  love  you — that 's 
what!"  I  exclaimed  gloomily,  with  involuntary 
impetuosity. 

"  Yes,  love  me,  but  not  as  before." 

"How  then?" 

"Let  us  be  friends, — that  is  how!" — Zinaida 
allowed  me  to  smell  of  the  rose. — "  Listen;  I  am 
much  older  than  you,  you  know — I  might  be  your 
aunt,  really;  well,  if  not  your  aunt,  then  your 
elder  sister.    While  you  .  .  .  ." 

"  I  am  a  child  to  you," — I  interrupted  her. 

"  Well,  yes,  you  are  a  child,  but  a  dear,  good, 
clever  child,  of  whom  I  am  very  fond.  Do  you 
know  what?  I  will  appoint  you  to  the  post  of  my 
page  from  this  day  forth ;  and  j'^ou  are  not  to  for- 
get that  pages  must  not  be  separated  from  their 
mistress.  Here  is  a  token  of  your  new  dignity 
for  you," — she  added,  sticking  the  rose  into  the 
button-hole  of  my  round-jacket;  "  a  token  of  our 
favour  toward  you." 

"  I  have  received  many  favours  from  you  in 
the  past," — I  murmured. 

"  Ah!  " — said  Zinaida,  and  darting  a  sidelong 
glance  at  me. — "What  a  memory  you  have! 
Well?    And  I  am  ready  now  also  .  .  .  ." 

And  bending  toward  me,  she  imprinted  on  my 
brow  a  pure,  calm  kiss. 

I  only  stared  at  her— but  she  turned  away  and, 
74 


FIRST  LOVE 

saying,—"  Follow  me,  my  page,"— walked  to 
the  wing.  I  followed  her— and  was  in  a  con- 
stant state  of  bewilderment.  — "  Is  it  possible," — 
I  thought,—"  that  this  gentle,  sensible  young  girl 
is  that  same  Zinaida  whom  I  used  to  know?" — 
And  her  very  walk  seemed  to  me  more  quiet,  her 
whole  figure  more  majestic,  more  graceful.  .  .  . 
And,  my  God!  with  what  fresh  violence  did 
love  flame  up  within  me ! 

XVI 

After  dinner  the  visitors  were  assembled  again 
in  the  wing,  and  the  young  Princess  came  out  to 
them.  The  whole  company  was  present,  in  full 
force,  as  on  that  first  evening,  never  to  be  forgot- 
ten by  me:  even  Nirmatzky  had  dragged  himself 
thither.  MaidanofF  had  arrived  earlier  than  all 
the  rest;  he  had  brought  some  new  verses.  The 
game  of  forfeits  began  again,  but  this  time  with- 
out the  strange  sallies,  without  pranks  and  up- 
roar; the  gipsy  element  had  vanished.  Zinaida 
gave  a  new  mood  to  our  gathering.  I  sat  beside 
her,  as  a  page  should.  Among  other  things,  she 
proposed  that  the  one  whose  forfeit  was  drawn 
should  narrate  his  dream;  but  this  was  not  a  suc- 
cess. The  dreams  turned  out  to  be  either  unin- 
teresting (Byelovzoroff  had  dreamed  that  he  had 
fed  his  horse  on  carp,  and  that  it  had  a  wooden 
head),  or  unnatui'al,  fictitious.     MaidanofF  re- 

75 


FIRST  LOVE 

galed  us  with  a  complete  novel ;  there  were  sepul- 
chres and  angels  with  harps,  and  burning  lights 
and  sounds  wafted  from  afar.  Zinaida  did  not 
allow  him  to  finish.  "  If  it  is  a  question  of  inven- 
tion,"— said  she, — "  then  let  each  one  relate  some- 
thing which  is  positively  made  up."— Byelov- 
zorofF  had  to  speak  first. 

The  young  hussar  became  confused.—"  I  can- 
not invent  anything!" — he  exclaimed. 

"What  nonsense!"  —  interposed  Zinaida.  — 
"  Come,  imagine,  for  instance,  that  you  are  mar- 
ried, and  tell  us  how  you  would  pass  the  time 
with  your  wife.    Would  you  lock  her  up?  " 

"  I  would." 

"  And  would  you  sit  with  her  yourself? " 

"  I  certainly  would  sit  with  her  myself." 

"  Very  good.  Well,  and  what  if  that  bored 
her,  and  she  betrayed  you? " 

"  I  would  kill  her." 

"  Just  so.  Well,  now  supposing  that  I  were 
your  wife,  what  would  you  do  then?  " 

ByelovzorofF  made  no  answer  for  a  while. — "  I 
would  kill  myself  .  .  .  ." 

Zinaida  burst  out  laughing. — "  I  see  that 
there  's  not  much  to  be  got  out  of  you." 

The  second  forfeit  fell  to  Zinaida's  share.  She 
raised  her  eyes  to  the  ceiling  and  meditated. — 
"  See  here," — she  began  at  last,—"  this  is  what  I 
have  devised.  .  .  .  Imagine  to  yourselves  a  mag- 
nificent palace,  a  summer  night,  and  a  marvellous 

76 


FIRST  LOVE 

ball.  This  ball  is  given  by  the  young  Queen. 
Everywhere  there  are  gold,  marble,  silk,  lights, 
diamonds,  flowers,  the  smoke  of  incense— all  the 
whims  of  luxury." 

"  Do  you  love  luxury?  "—interrupted  Liishin. 

"Luxury  is  beautiful,"— she  returned;—"! 
love  everything  that  is  beautiful." 

"  More  than  what  is  fine?  "—he  asked. 

"  That  is  difficult;  somehow  I  don't  understand. 
Don't  bother  me.  So  then,  there  is  a  magnificent 
ball.  There  are  many  guests,  they  are  all  young, 
very  handsome,  brave ;  all  are  desperately  in  love 
with  the  Queen." 

"  Are  there  no  women  among  the  guests?  " — 
inquired  Malevsky. 

"  No— or  stay— yes,  there  are." 

"  Also  very  handsome?  " 

"  Charming.  But  the  men  are  all  in  love  with 
the  Queen.  She  is  tall  and  slender;  she  wears  a 
small  gold  diadem  on  her  black  hair." 

I  looked  at  Zinaida— and  at  that  moment  she 
seemed  so  far  above  us,  her  white  forehead  and 
her  impassive  eyebrows  exhaled  so  much  clear  in- 
telligence and  such  sovereignty,  that  I  said  to  my- 
self:  "  Thou  thyself  art  that  Queen!  " 

"All  throng  around  her,"— pursued  Zinaida; 
— "  all  lavish  the  most  flattering  speeches  on  her." 

"  And  is  she  fond  of  flattery?  "—asked  Liishin. 

"How  intolerable!  He  is  continually  inter- 
rupting. .  .  Who  does  not  like  flattery?  " 

77 


FIRST  LOVE 

"  One  more  final  question," — remarked  Malev- 
sky: — "  Has  the  Queen  a  husband?  " 

"  I  have  not  thought  about  that.  No,  why 
should  she  have  a  husband?  " 

"Of  course,"— assented  Malevsky;— "  why 
should  she  have  a  husband?  " 

"  Silence!  "—exclaimed,  in  English,  Maida- 
noff ,  who  spoke  French  badly. 

''  31  erci/'— said  Zinaida  to  him.—"  So  then, 
the  Queen  listens  to  those  speeches,  listens  to  the 
music,  but  does  not  look  at  a  single  one  of  the 
guests.  Six  windows  are  open  from  top  to  bot- 
tom, from  ceiling  to  floor,  and  behind  them  are 
the  dark  sky  with  great  stars  and  the  dark  garden 
with  huge  trees.  The  Queen  gazes  into  the  gar- 
den. There,  near  the  trees  is  a  fountain :  it  gleams 
white  athwart  the  gloom — long,  as  long  as  a 
spectre.  The  Queen  hears  the  quiet  plashing  of 
its  waters  in  the  midst  of  the  conversation  and  the 
music.  She  gazes  and  thinks :  '  All  of  you  gen- 
tlemen are  noble,  clever,  wealthy;  you  are  all 
ready  to  die  at  my  feet,  I  rule  over  j^ou;  .... 
but  yonder,  by  the  side  of  the  fountain,  by  the 
side  of  that  plashing  water,  there  is  standing  and 
waiting  for  me  the  man  whom  I  love,  who  rules 
over  me.  He  wears  no  rich  garments,  nor  pre- 
cious jewels;  no  one  knows  him;  but  he  is  waiting 
for  me,  and  is  convinced  that  I  shall  come— and 
I  shall  come,  and  there  is  no  power  in  existence 
which  can  stop  me  when  I  wish  to  go  to  him  and 

78 


FIRST  LOVE 

remain  with  him  and  lose  myself  with  him  yonder, 
in  the  gloom  of  the  park,  beneath  the  rustling  of 
the  trees,  beneath  the  plashing  of  the  foun- 
tain ....'" 

Zinaida  ceased  speaking. 

"Is    that    an    invention?  "—asked    Malevsky 

slyly. 

Zinaida  did  not  even  glance  at  him. 

"  But  what  should  we  do,  gentlemen,"— sud- 
denly spoke  up  Liishin, — "  if  we  were  among  the 
guests  and  knew  about  that  lucky  man  by  the 
fountain? " 

"  Stay,  stay," — interposed  Zinaida: — "  I  my- 
self will  tell  you  what  each  one  of  you  would  do. 
You,  ByelovzorofF,  would  challenge  him  to  a 
duel ;  you,  MaidanofF,  would  write  an  epigram  on 
him.  .  .  .  But  no — you  do  not  know  how  to 
write  epigrams ;  you  would  compose  a  long  iambic 
poem  on  him,  after  the  style  of  Barbier,  and 
would  insert  your  production  in  the  Telegraph. 
You,  Nirmatzky,  would  borrow  from  him  .... 
no,  you  would  lend  him  money  on  interest;  you, 
doctor  .  .  .  ."  She  paused.  ..."  I  really  do 
not  know  about  you, — what  you  would  do." 

"  In  my  capacity  of  Court-physician,"  replied 
Liishin,  "  I  would  advise  the  Queen  not  to  give 
balls  when  she  did  not  feel  in  the  mood  for 
guests  .  .  .  ." 

"  Perhaps  you  would  be  in  the  right.  And  you, 
Count?" 

79 


FIRST  LOVE 

"And  I?"— repeated  Malevsky,  with  an  evil 
smile. 

"  And  you  would  oif  er  him  some  poisoned 
sugar-plums." 

Malevsky's  face  writhed  a  little  and  assumed 
for  a  moment  a  Jewish  expression;  but  he  imme- 
diately burst  into  a  guiFaw. 

"  As    for    you,    M'sieu    Voldemar " 

went  on  Zinaida,— "  but  enough  of  this;  let  us 
play  at  some  other  game." 

"  M'sieu  Voldemar,  in  his  capacity  of  page  to 
the  Queen,  would  hold  up  her  train  when  she  ran 
off  into  the  park,"— remarked  Malevsky  vi- 
ciously. 

I  flared  up,  but  Zinaida  swiftly  laid  her  hand 
on  my  shoulder  and  rising,  said  in  a  slightly 
tremulous  voice:— "I  have  never  given  Your 
Radiance  the  right  to  be  insolent,  and  therefore 
I  beg  that  you  will  withdraw."— She  pointed  him 
to  the  door. 

'*  Have  mercy,  Princess,"— mumbled  Malev- 
sky, turning  pale  all  over. 

"  The  Princess  is  right,"— exclaimed  Byelov- 
zorofl",  rising  to  his  feet  also. 

"  By  God!  I  never  in  the  least  expected  this," 
—went  on  Malevsky:—"  I  think  there  was  noth- 
ing in  my  words  which  ....  I  had  no  intention  of 
offending  you.  .  .  .  Forgive  me." 

Zinaida  surveyed  him  with  a  cold  glance,  and 
smiled  coldly.—"  Remain,  if  you  like,"— she  said, 

80 


FIRST  LOVE 

with  a  careless  wave  of  her  hand.—"  M'sieu 
Voldemar  and  I  have  taken  offence  without 
cause.  You  find  it  merry  to  jest.  ...  I  wish  you 
weU." 

"  Forgive  me,"— repeated  Malevsky  once 
more;  and  I,  recalhng  Zinaida's  movement, 
thought  again  that  a  real  queen  could  not  have 
ordered  an  insolent  man  out  of  the  room  with 
more  majesty. 

The  game  of  forfeits  did  not  continue  long 
after  this  little  scene ;  all  felt  somewhat  awkward, 
not  so  much  in  consequence  of  the  scene  itself  as 
from  another,  not  entirely  defined,  but  oppressive 
sensation.  No  one  alluded  to  it,  but  each  one  was 
conscious  of  its  existence  within  himself  and  in  his 
neighbour.  MaidanoiF  recited  to  us  all  his  poems 
—and  Malevsky  lauded  them  with  exaggerated 
warmth. 

"  How  hard  he  is  trying  to  appear  amiable 
now,"— Lushin  whispered  to  me. 

We  soon  dispersed.  Zinaida  had  suddenly 
grown  pensive;  the  old  Princess  sent  word  that 
she  had  a  headache;  Nirmatzky  began  to  com- 
plain of  his  rheumatism.  .  .  . 

For  a  long  time  I  could  not  get  to  sleep;  Zi- 
naida's narrative  had  impressed  me.—"  Is  it  pos- 
sible that  it  contains  a  hint?  "—I  asked  myself: 
— "  and  at  whom  was  she  hinting?  And  if  there 
really  is  some  one  to  hint  about  ....  what  must 
I  decide  to  do?    No,  no,  it  cannot  be,"— I  whis- 

81 


FIRST  LOVE 

pered,  turning  over  from  one  burning  cheek  to 
the  other.  .  .  .  But  I  called  to  mind  the  expres- 
sion of  Zinaida's  face  during  her  narration.  ...  I 
called  to  mind  the  exclamation  which  had  broken 
from  Lushin  in  the  Neskutchny  Park,  the  sudden 
changes  in  her  treatment  of  me— and  lost  myself 
in  conjectures.  "  Who  is  he?  "  Those  three  words 
seemed  to  stand  in  front  of  my  eyes,  outlined  in 
the  darkness;  a  low-lying,  ominous  cloud  seemed 
to  be  hanging  over  me— and  I  felt  its  pressure— 
and  waited  every  moment  for  it  to  burst.  I  had 
grown  used  to  many  things  of  late;  I  had  seen 
many  things  at  the  Zasyekins';  their  disorderli- 
ness,  tallow  candle-ends,  broken  knives  and  forks, 
gloomy  Vonifaty,  the  shabby  maids,  the  man- 
ners of  the  old  Princess  herself,— all  that  strange 
life  no  longer  surprised  me.  .  .  .  But  to  that 
which  I  now  dimly  felt  in  Zinaida  I  could  not  get 
used  .  .  .  .  "  An  adventuress,"— my  mother  had 
one  day  said  concerning  her.  An  adventuress— 
she,  my  idol,  my  divinity!  That  appellation 
seared  me ;  I  tried  to  escape  from  it  by  burrowing 
into  my  pillow;  I  raged— and  at  the  same  time, 
to  what  would  not  I  have  agreed,  what  would  not 
I  have  given,  if  only  I  might  be  that  happy  mor- 
tal by  the  fountain !  .  .  . 

My  blood  grew  hot  and  seethed  within  me. 
"  A  garden  ....  a  fountain,"  ...  I  thought. 
..."  I  will  go  into  the  garden."  I  dressed  my- 
self quickly  and  slipped  out  of  the  house.     The 

82 


FIRST  LOVE 

night  was  dark,  the  trees  were  barely  whispering ; 
a  quiet  chill  was  descending  from  the  sky,  an 
odour  of  fennel  was  wafted  from  the  vegetable- 
garden.  I  made  the  round  of  all  the  alleys;  the 
light  sound  of  my  footsteps  both  disconcerted  me 
and  gave  me  courage;  I  halted,  waiting  and  lis- 
tening to  hear  how  my  heart  was  beating  quickly 
and  violently.  At  last  I  approached  the  fence  and 
leaned  against  a  slender  post.  All  at  once — or 
was  it  only  my  imagination?— a  woman's  figure 
flitted  past  a  few  paces  distant  from  me.  ...  I 
strained  my  eyes  intently  on  the  darkness ;  I  held 
my  breath.  What  was  this?  Was  it  footsteps 
that  I  heard  or  was  it  the  thumping  of  my  heart 
again?—"  Who  is  here?  "—I  stammered  in  barely 
audible  tones.  What  was  that  again?  A  sup- 
pressed laugh  ?  ....  or  a  rustling  in  the  leaves  ? 
....  or  a  sigh  close  to  my  very  ear  ?  I  was  terri- 
fied. .  .  .  "  Who  is  here?  "—I  repeated,  in  a  still 
lower  voice. 

The  breeze  began  to  flutter  for  a  moment;  a 
fiery  band  flashed  across  the  sky;  a  star  shot  down. 
— "  Is  it  Zinaida?  " — I  tried  to  ask,  but  the  sound 
died  on  my  lips.  And  suddenly  everything  be- 
came profoundly  silent  all  around,  as  often  hap- 
pens in  the  middle  of  the  night.  .  .  .  Even  the 
katydids  ceased  to  shrill  in  the  trees;  only  a  win- 
dow rattled  somewhere.  I  stood  and  stood,  then 
returned  to  my  chamber,  to  my  cold  bed.  I  felt 
a  strange  agitation — exactly  as  though  I  had 

83 


FIRST  LOVE 

gone  to  a  tryst,  and  had  remained  alone,  and  had 
passed  by  some  one  else's  happiness. 

XVII 

The  next  day  I  caught  only  a  glimpse  of  Zi- 
naida;  she  drove  away  somewhere  with  the  old 
Princess  in  a  hired  carriage.  On  the  other  hand, 
I  saw  Lushin — who,  however,  barely  deigned  to 
bestow  a  greeting  on  me— and  Malevsky.  The 
young  Count  grinned  and  entered  into  conversa- 
tion with  me  in  friendly  wise.  Among  all  the 
visitors  to  the  wing  he  alone  had  managed  to  ef- 
fect an  entrance  to  our  house,  and  my  mother  had 
taken  a  fancy  to  him.  My  father  did  not  favour 
him  and  treated  him  politely  to  the  point  of  insult. 

"  Ah,  monsieur  le  page," — began  Malevsky, 
— "I  am  very  glad  to  meet  you.  What  is  your 
beauteous  queen  doing? " 

His  fresh,  handsome  face  was  so  repulsive  to 
me  at  that  moment,  and  he  looked  at  me  with  such 
a  scornfully-playful  stare,  that  I  made  him  no 
answer  whatsoever. 

"  Are  you  still  in  a  bad  humour?  " — he  went  on. 
—  "  There  is  no  occasion  for  it.  It  was  not  I,  you 
know,  who  called  you  a  page;  and  pages  are 
chiefly  with  queens.  But  permit  me  to  observe  to 
you  that  you  are  fulfilling  your  duties  badly." 

"How  so?" 

"  Pages  ought  to  be  inseparable  from  their  sov- 

84 


FIRST  LOVE 

ereigns;  pages  ought  to  know  everything  that 
they  do;  they  ought  even  to  watch  over  them," — 
he  added,  lowering  his  voice, — "  day  and  night." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  " 

"  What  do  I  mean?  I  think  I  have  expressed 
myself  plainly.  Day— and  night.  It  does  not 
matter  so  much  about  the  day;  by  day  it  is 
light  and  there  are  people  about;  but  by  night 
—that 's  exactly  the  time  to  expect  a  catastrophe. 
I  advise  you  not  to  sleep  o'  nights  and  to  watch, 
watch  with  all  your  might.  Remember— in  a  gar- 
den, by  night,  near  the  fountain — that 's  where 
you  must  keep  guard.  You  will  thank  me  for 
this." 

Malevsky  laughed  and  turned  his  back  on  me. 
He  did  not,  in  all  probability,  attribute  any 
special  importance  to  what  he  had  said  to  me ;  he 
bore  the  reputation  of  being  a  capital  hand  at 
mystification,  and  was  renowned  for  his  cleverness 
in  fooling  people  at  the  masquerades,  in  which 
that  almost  unconscious  disposition  to  lie,  where- 
with his  whole  being  was  permeated,  greatly 
aided  him.  .  .  .  He  had  merely  wished  to  tease 
me;  but  every  word  of  his  trickled  like  poison 
through  all  my  veins.— The  blood  flew  to  my 
head. 

"Ah!  so  that's  it!"— I  said  to  myself:— 
"good!  So  it  was  not  for  nothing  that  I  felt 
drawn  to  the  garden!  That  shall  not  be!  "  I  ex- 
claimed, smiting  myself  on  the  breast  with  my 

85 


FIRST  LOVE 

fist;  although  I  really  did  not  know  what  it  was 
that  I  was  determined  not  to  permit.—"  Whether 
Malevsky  himself  comes  into  the  garden,"— I 
thought  (perhaps  he  had  blurted  out  a  secret;  he 
was  insolent  enough  for  that), — "or  some  one 
else," —  (the  fence  of  our  vegetable-garden  was 
very  low  and  it  cost  no  effort  to  climb  over  it)  — 
"  at  any  rate,  it  will  be  all  the  worse  for  the  person 
whom  I  catch !  I  would  not  advise  any  one  to  en- 
counter me !  I  '11  show  the  whole  world  and  her, 
the  traitress," —  (I  actually  called  her  a  traitress) 
— "  that  I  know  how  to  avenge  myself!  " 

I  returned  to  my  own  room,  took  out  of  my 
writing-table  a  recently  purchased  English  knife, 
felt  of  the  sharp  blade,  and,  knitting  my  brows, 
thrust  it  into  my  pocket  with  a  cold  and  concen- 
trated decision,  exactly  as  though  it  was  nothing 
remarkable  for  me  to  do  such  deeds,  and  this  was 
not  the  first  occasion.  My  heart  swelled  angrily 
within  me  and  grew  stony ;  I  did  not  unbend  my 
brows  until  nightfall  and  did  not  relax  my  lips, 
and  kept  striding  back  and  forth,  clutching  the 
knife  which  had  grown  warm  in  my  pocket,  and 
preparing  myself  in  advance  for  something  ter- 
rible. These  new,  unprecedented  emotions  so  en- 
grossed and  even  cheered  me,  that  I  thought  very 
little  about  Zinaida  herself.  There  kept  con- 
stantly flitting  through  my  head  Aleko,  the 
young  gipsy:  ^ — "Where  art  thou  going,  hand- 

^In  Pushkin's  poem,  "The  Gipsies."— Teanslator. 
86 


FIRST  LOVE 

some  youth?— Lie  down  .  .  .  ."  and  then; 
"  Thou 'rt  all  with  blood  bespattered!  ....  Oh, 
what  is 't  that  thou  hast  done?  .  .  .  Nothing!" 
With  what  a  harsh  smile  I  repeated  that:  that 
"Nothing!" 

My  father  was  not  at  home;  but  my  mother, 
who  for  some  time  past  had  been  in  a  state  of  al- 
most constant,  dull  irritation,  noticed  my  baleful 
aspect  at  supper,  and  said  to  me: — "What  art 
thou  sulking  at,  like  a  mouse  at  groats?"— I 
merely  smiled  patronisingly  at  her  by  way  of  re- 
ply and  thought  to  myself:  "  If  they  only  knew!  " 
—The  clock  struck  eleven;  I  went  to  my  own 
room  but  did  not  undress ;  I  was  waiting  for  mid- 
night; at  last  it  struck.—"  'T  is  time!  "—I  hissed 
between  my  teeth,  and  buttoning  my  coat  to  the 
throat  and  even  turning  up  my  sleeves  I  betook 
myself  to  the  garden. 

I  had  selected  a  place  beforehand  where  I 
meant  to  stand  on  guard.  At  the  end  of  the  gar- 
den, at  the  spot  where  the  fence,  which  separated 
our  property  from  the  Zasyekins',  abutted  on  the 
party-wall,  grew  a  solitary  spruce-tree.  Stand- 
ing beneath  its  low,  thick  branches,  I  could  see 
well,  as  far  as  the  nocturnal  gloom  permitted,  all 
that  went  on  around ;  there  also  meandered  a  path 
which  always  seemed  to  me  mysterious ;  like  a  ser- 
pent it  wound  under  the  fence,  which  at  that 
point  bore  traces  of  clambering  feet,  and  led  to 
an  arbour  of  dense  acacias.    I  reached  the  spruce- 

87 


FIRST  LOVE 

tree,  leaned  against  its  trunk  and  began  my 
watch. 

The  night  was  as  tranquil  as  the  preceding  one 
had  been;  but  there  were  fewer  storm-clouds  in 
the  sky,  and  the  outlines  of  the  bushes,  even  of  the 
tall  flowers,  were  more  plainly  discernible.  The 
first  moments  of  waiting  were  wearisome,  almost 
terrible.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  everything ; 
I  was  merely  considering  how  I  ought  to  act. 
Ought  I  to  thunder  out:  "Who  goes  there? 
Halt!  Confess— or  die!"— or  simply  smite.  .  . 
Every  sound,  every  noise  and  rustling  seemed  to 
me  significant,  unusual  ....  I  made  ready  .... 

I  bent  forward But  half  an  hour,  an  hour, 

elapsed ;  my  blood  quieted  down  and  turned  cold ; 
the  consciousness  that  I  was  doing  all  this  in  vain, 
that  I  was  even  somewhat  ridiculous,  that  Malev- 
sky  had  been  making  fun  of  me,  began  to  steal 
into  my  soul.  I  abandoned  my  ambush  and  made 
the  round  of  the  entire  garden.  As  though  ex- 
pressly, not  the  slightest  sound  was  to  be  heard 
anywhere;  everything  was  at  rest;  even  our  dog 
was  asleep,  curled  up  in  a  ball  at  the  gate.  I 
climbed  up  on  the  ruin  of  the  hothouse,  beheld 
before  me  the  distant  plain,  recalled  my  meeting 
with  Zinaida,  and  became  immersed  in  medita- 
tion  

I  started  ....  I  thought  I  heard  the  creak  of 
an  opening  door,  then  the  light  crackling  of  a 
broken  twig.     In  two  bounds  I  had  descended 

88 


FIRST  LOVE 

from  the  ruin— and  stood  petrified  on  the  spot. 
Swift,  light  but  cautious  footsteps  were  plainly 
audible  in  the  garden.  They  were  coming  toward 
me.  "  Here  he  is.  .  .  .  Here  he  is,  at  last!"— 
darted  through  my  heart.  I  convulsively  jerked 
the  knife  out  of  my  pocket,  convulsively  opened 
it — red  sparks  whirled  before  my  eyes,  the  hair 
stood  up  on  my  head  with  fright  and  wrath.  .  .  . 
The  steps  were  coming  straight  toward  me — I 
bent  over,  and  went  to  meet  them.  ...  A  man 
made  his  appearance.  .  .  .  My  God !  It  was  my 
father ! 

I  recognised  him  instantly,  although  he  was  all 
enveloped  in  a  dark  cloak,— and  had  pulled  his 
hat  down  over  his  face.  He  went  past  me  on  tip- 
toe. He  did  not  notice  me  although  nothing  con- 
cealed me;  but  I  had  so  contracted  myself  and 
shrunk  together  that  I  think  I  must  have  been  on 
a  level  with  the  ground.  The  jealous  Othello, 
prepared  to  murder,  had  suddenly  been  converted 
into  the  school-boy.  ...  I  was  so  frightened  by 
the  unexpected  apparition  of  my  father  that  I  did 
not  even  take  note,  at  first,  in  what  direction  he 
was  going  and  where  he  had  disappeared.  I 
merely  straightened  up  at  the  moment  and 
thought :  "  Why  is  my  father  walking  in  the  gar- 
den by  night?  "—when  everything  around  had  re- 
lapsed into  silence.  In  my  alarm  I  had  dropped 
my  knife  in  the  grass,  but  I  did  not  even  try  to 
find  it;  I  felt  very  much  ashamed.    I  became  so- 

89 


FIRST  LOVE 

bered  on  the  instant.  But  as  I  wended  my  way 
home,  I  stepped  up  to  my  little  bench  under  the 
elder-bush  and  cast  a  glance  at  the  little  window 
of  Zinaida's  chamber.  The  small,  somewhat 
curved  panes  of  the  little  window  gleamed  dully 
blue  in  the  faint  light  which  fell  from  the  night 
sky.  Suddenly  their  colour  began  to  undergo  a 
change.  ,  .  .  Behind  them— I  saw  it,  saw  it 
clearly,— a  whitish  shade  was  lowered,  descended 
to  the  sill,— and  there  remained  motionless. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  that?  "—I  said  aloud, 
almost  involuntarily,  when  I  again  found  myself 
in  my  own  room.  —  "  Was  it  a  dream,  an  accident, 
or  ....  "  The  surmises  which  suddenly  came 
into  my  head  were  so  new  and  strange  that  I 
dared  not  even  yield  to  them. 

XVIII 

I  ROSE  in  the  morning  with  a  headache.  My  agi- 
tation of  the  night  before  had  vanished.  It  had 
been  replaced  by  an  oppressive  perplexity  and  a 
certain,  hitherto  unknown  sadness, — exactly  as 
though  something  had  died  in  me. 

"  What  makes  you  look  like  a  rabbit  which  has 
had  half  of  its  brain  removed?  "—said  Lushin, 
who  happened  to  meet  me.  At  breakfast  I  kept 
casting  covert  glances  now  at  my  father,  now  at 
my  mother;  he  was  calm,  as  usual;  she,  as  usual, 
was  secretly  irritated.     I  waited  to  see  whether 

90 


FIRST  LOVE 

my  father  would  address  me  in  a  friendly  way,  as 
he  sometimes  did.  .  .  .  But  he  did  not  even  ca- 
ress me  with  his  cold,  everyday  affection.— 
"  Shall  I  tell  Zinaida  all?  "-I  thought.  .  .  . 
"  For  it  makes  no  difference  now— everything  is 
over  between  us."  I  went  to  her,  but  I  not  only 
did  not  tell  her  anything,— I  did  not  even  get  a 
chance  to  talk  to  her  as  I  would  have  liked.  The 
old  Princess's  son,  a  cadet  aged  twelve,  had  come 
from  Petersburg  to  spend  his  vacation  with  her; 
Zinaida  immediately  confided  her  brother  to  me. 
— "  Here,  my  dear  Volodya,"— said  she  (she 
called  me  so  for  the  first  time) ,  "  is  a  comrade  for 
you.  His  name  is  Volodya  also.  Pray,  like  him ; 
he  's  a  wild  little  fellow  still,  but  he  has  a  good 
heart.  Show  him  Neskiitchny  Park,  walk  with 
him,  take  him  under  your  protection.  You  will 
do  that,  will  you  not?  You,  too,  are  such  a  good 
fellow!"— She  laid  both  hands  affectionately  on 
my  shoulder— and  I  was  reduced  to  utter  confu- 
sion. The  arrival  of  that  boy  turned  me  into  a 
boy.  I  stared  in  silence  at  the  cadet,  who  riveted 
his  eyes  in  corresponding  silence  on  me.  Zinaida 
burst  out  laughing  and  pushed  us  toward  each 
other.— "  Come,  embrace,  children!" — We  em- 
braced.—" I  '11  take  you  into  the  garden  if  you 
wish,— shall  I?  " — I  asked  the  cadet. 

"  Certainly,  sir," — he  replied,  in  a  hoarse, 
genuine  cadet  voice.  Again  Zinaida  indulged  in 
a  burst  of  laughter.  ...  I  managed  to  notice 

91 


FIRST  LOVE 

that  never  before  had  she  had  such  charming  col- 
our in  her  face.  The  cadet  and  I  went  off  to- 
gether. In  our  garden  stood  an  old  swing.  I 
seated  him  on  the  thin  little  board  and  began  to 
swing  him.  He  sat  motionless  in  his  new  little 
uniform  of  thick  cloth  with  broad  gold  galloon, 
and  clung  tightly  to  the  ropes. 

"  You  had  better  unhook  your  collar,"— I  said 
to  him. 

"  Never  mind,  sir,^  we  are  used  to  it,  sir," — he 
said,  and  cleared  his  throat. 

He  resembled  his  sister;  his  eyes  were  particu- 
larly suggestive  of  her.  It  was  pleasant  to  me  to 
be  of  service  to  him;  and,  at  the  same  time,  that 
aching  pain  kept  quietly  gnawing  at  my  heart. 
"Now  I  really  am  a  child,"  I  thought;  "but 
last  night  .  ..."  I  remembered  where  I  had 
dropped  my  knife  and  found  it.  The  cadet  asked 
me  to  lend  it  to  him,  plucked  a  thick  stalk  of 
lovage,  cut  a  whistle  from  it,  and  began  to  pipe. 
Othello  piped  also. 

But  in  the  evening,  on  the  other  hand,  how  he 
did  weep,  that  same  Othello,  over  Zinaida's  hands 
when,  having  sought  him  out  in  a  corner  of  the 
garden,  she  asked  him  what  made  him  so  melan- 
choly. My  tears  streamed  with  such  violence  that 
she  was  frightened. — "What  is  the  matter  with 
you?    What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Volodya? " 

*The  respectful  "s,"  which  is  an  abbreviation  of  "sir"  or 
"  madam."— Translator. 

92 


FIRST  LOVE 

—she  kept  repeating,  and  seeing  that  I  made  her 
no  reply,  she  took  it  into  her  head  to  kiss  my  wet 
cheek.  But  I  turned  away  from  her  and  whis- 
pered through  my  sobs:— "I  know  everything; 
why  have  you  trifled  with  me?  ...  .  Why  did 
you  want  my  love?  " 

"  I  am  to  blame  toward  you,  Volodya  "  .  .  .  . 
said  Zinaida.— "  Akh,  I  am  very  much  to  blame  " 

she    said,    and    clenched    her    hands.— 

"  How  much  evil,  dark,  sinful,  there  is  in  me !  .  .  . 
But  I  am  not  trifling  with  you  now,  I  love  you — 
you  do  not  suspect  why  and  how.  .  .  .  But  what 
is  it  you  know?  " 

What  could  I  say  to  her?  She  stood  before  me 
and  gazed  at  me— and  I  belonged  to  her  wholly, 
from  head  to  foot,  as  soon  as  she  looked  at  me. 
...  A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  I  was  running  a 
race  with  the  cadet  and  Zinaida ;  I  was  not  weep- 
ing ;  I  was  laughing,  although  my  swollen  eyelids 
dropped  tears  from  laughing;  on  my  neck,  in 
place  of  a  tie,  was  bound  a  ribbon  of  Zinaida's, 
and  I  shouted  with  joy  when  I  succeeded  in  seiz- 
ing her  round  the  waist.  She  did  with  me  whatso- 
ever she  would. 

XIX 

I  SHOULD  be  hard  put  to  it,  if  I  were  made  to  nar- 
rate in  detail  all  that  went  on  within  me  in  the 
course  of  the  week  which  followed  my  unsuccess- 

93 


FIRST   LOVE 

ful  nocturnal  expedition.  It  was  a  strange, 
feverish  time,  a  sort  of  chaos  in  which  the  most 
opposite  emotions,  thoughts,  suspicions,  hopes, 
joys,  and  suiFerings  revolved  in  a  whirlwind;  I 
was  afraid  to  look  into  myself,  if  a  sixteen- 
year-old  can  look  into  himself ;  I  was  afraid  to  ac- 
count to  myself  for  anything  whatsoever;  I  sim- 
ply made  haste  to  live  through  the  day  until  the 
evening ;  on  the  other  hand,  at  night  I  slept  .  .  . 
childish  giddiness  helped  me.  I  did  not  want  to 
know  whether  I  was  beloved,  and  would  not  ad- 
mit to  myself  that  I  was  not  beloved ;  I  shunned 
my  father— but  could  not  shun  Zinaida.  ...  I 
burned  as  with  fire  in  her  presence,  ....  but 
what  was  the  use  of  my  knowing  what  sort  of  fire 
it  was  wherewith  I  burned  and  melted — seeing 
that  it  was  sweet  to  me  to  burn  and  melt !  I  sur- 
rendered myself  entirely  to  my  impressions,  and 
dealt  artfully  with  myself,  turned  away  from  my 
memories  and  shut  my  eyes  to  that  of  which  I  had 
a  presentiment  in  the  future.  .  .  .  This  anguish 
probably  would  not  have  continued  long  ...  a 
thunder-clap  put  an  instantaneous  end  to  every- 
thing and  hurled  me  into  a  new  course. 

On  returning  home  one  day  to  dinner  from  a 
rather  long  walk,  I  learned  with  surprise  that  I 
was  to  dine  alone ;  that  my  father  had  gone  away, 
while  my  mother  was  ill,  did  not  wish  to  dine 
and  had  shut  herself  up  in  her  bedroom.  From 
the  footmen's  faces  I  divined  that  something  un- 

94 


FIRST   LOVE 

usual  had  taken  place.  ...  I  dared  not  interro- 
gate them,  but  I  had  a  friend,  the  young  butler 
Philipp,  who  was  passionately  fond  of  poetry  and 
an  artist  on  the  guitar;  I  applied  to  him.  From 
him  I  learned  that  a  frightful  scene  had  taken 
place  between  my  father  and  mother  (for  in  the 
maids'  room  everything  was  audible,  to  the  last 
word;  a  great  deal  had  been  said  in  French,  but 
the  maid  Masha  had  lived  for  five  years  with  a 
dressmaker  from  Paris  and  understood  it  all)  ; 
that  my  mother  had  accused  my  father  of  infi- 
delity, of  being  intimate  with  the  young  lady 
our  neighbour ;  that  my  father  had  first  defended 
himself,  then  had  flared  up  and  in  his  turn  had 
made  some  harsh  remark  "  seemingly  about  her 
age,"  which  had  set  my  mother  to  crying;  that  my 
mother  had  also  referred  to  a  note  of  hand,  which 
appeared  to  have  been  given  to  the  old  Princess, 
and  expressed  herself  very  vilely  about  her,  and 
about  the  young  lady  as  well;  and  that  then  my 
father  had  threatened  her.—"  And  the  whole 
trouble  arose,"— pursued  Philipp,  "  out  of  an 
anonymous  letter ;  but  who  wrote  it  no  one  knows ; 
otherwise  there  was  no  reason  why  this  affair 
should  have  come  out." 

*'  But  has  there  been  anything?  "—I  enun- 
ciated with  difficulty,  while  my  hands  and  feet 
turned  cold,  and  something  began  to  quiver  in  the 
very  depths  of  my  breast. 

Philipp    winke^l    significantly.—"  There    has. 

95 


FIRST  LOVE 

You  can't  conceal  such  doings,  cautious  as  your 
papa  has  been  in  this  case;— still,  what  possessed 
him,  for  example,  to  hire  a  carriage,  or  to  ...  . 
for  you  can't  get  along  without  people  there 
also." 

I  dismissed  Philipp,  and  flung  myself  down  on 
my  bed.  I  did  not  sob,  I  did  not  give  myself  up 
to  despair ;  I  did  not  ask  myself  when  and  how  all 
this  had  taken  place;  I  was  not  surprised  that 
I  had  not  guessed  it  sooner,  long  before— I  did 
not  even  murmur  against  my  father.  .  .  .  That 
which  I  had  learned  was  beyond  my  strength ;  this 
sudden  discovery  had  crushed  me.  .  .  .  All  was 
over.  All  my  flowers  had  been  plucked  up  at  one 
blow  and  lay  strewn  around  me,  scattered  and 
trampled  under  foot. 


XX 

On  the  following  day  my  mother  announced  that 
she  was  going  to  remove  to  town.  My  father  went 
into  her  bedroom  in  the  morning  and  sat  there 
a  long  time  alone  with  her.  No  one  heard  what 
he  said  to  her,  but  my  mother  did  not  weep  any 
more;  she  calmed  down  and  asked  for  something 
to  eat,  but  did  not  show  herself  and  did  not  alter 
her  intention.  I  remember  that  I  wandered  about 
all  day  long,  but  did  not  go  into  the  garden  and 
did  not  glance  even  once  at  the  wing — and  in  the 

96 


FIRST  LOVE 

evening  I  was  the  witness  of  an  amazing  occur- 
rence; my  father  took  Comit  Malevsky  by  the 
arm  and  led  him  out  of  the  hall  into  the  anteroom 
and,  in  the  presence  of  a  lackey,  said  coldly  to 
him:  "  Several  days  ago  Your  Radiance  was 
shown  the  door  in  a  certain  house.  I  shall  not 
enter  into  explanations  with  you  now,  but  I  have 
the  honour  to  inform  you  that  if  you  come  to  my 
house  again  I  shall  fling  you  through  the  window. 
I  don't  like  your  handwriting."  The  Count 
bowed,  set  his  teeth,  shrank  together,  and  disap- 
peared. 

Preparations  began  for  removing  to  town,  on 
the  Arbat,^  where  our  house  was  situated.  Prob- 
ably my  father  himself  no  longer  cared  to  re- 
main in  the  villa;  but  it  was  evident  that  he  had 
succeeded  in  persuading  my  mother  not  to  make 
a  row.  Everything  was  done  quietly,  without 
haste;  my  mother  even  sent  her  compliments  to 
the  old  Princess  and  expressed  her  regret  that, 
owing  to  ill-health,  she  would  be  unable  to  see 
her  before  her  departure.  I  prowled  about  like 
a  crazy  person,  and  desired  but  one  thing, — that 
everything  might  come  to  an  end  as  speedily  as 
possible.  One  thought  never  quitted  my  head: 
how  could  she,  a  young  girl, — well,  and  a  prin- 
cess into  the  bargain,— bring  herself  to  such  a 
step,  knowing  that  my  father  was  not  a  free  man 
while  she  had  the  possibility  of  marrying  Bye- 

*  A  square  in  Moscow.— Translator. 

97 


FIRST  LOVE 

lovzoroif  at  least,  for  example?  What  had  she 
hoped  for?  How  was  it  that  she  had  not  been 
afraid  to  ruin  her  whole  future? — "  Yes," — I 
thought,—"  that 's  what  love  is, — that  is  passion, 
—that  is  devotion,"  .  .  .  and  I  recalled  Liishin's 
words  to  me:  "  Self-sacrifice  is  sweet— for  some 
people."  Once  I  happened  to  catch  sight  of  a 
white  spot  in  one  of  the  windows  of  the  wing.  .  .  . 
"  Can  that  be  Zinaida's  face?  "—I  thought;  .  .  . 
and  it  really  was  her  face.  I  could  not  hold  out. 
I  could  not  part  from  her  without  bidding  her  a 
last  farewell.  I  seized  a  convenient  moment  and 
betook  myself  to  the  wing. 

In  the  drawing-room  the  old  Princess  received 
me  with  her  customary,  slovenly-careless  greet- 
ing. 

"  What  has  made  your  folks  uneasy  so  early, 
my  dear  fellow?"— she  said,  stuffing  snufiT  up 
both  her  nostrils.  I  looked  at  her,  and  a  weight 
was  removed  from  my  heart.  The  word  "  note 
of  hand  "  uttered  by  Philipp  tormented  me.  She 
suspected  nothing  ....  so  it  seemed  to  me  then, 
at  least.  Zinaida  made  her  appearance  from  the 
adjoining  room  in  a  black  gown,  pale,  with  hair 
out  of  curl ;  she  silently  took  me  by  the  hand  and 
led  me  away  to  her  room. 

"  I  heard  your  voice,"— she  began, — "  and 
came  out  at  once.  And  did  you  find  it  so  easy  to 
desert  us,  naughty  boy?  " 

"  I  have  come  to  take  leave  of  you,  Princess," 
98 


FIRST  LOVE 

—I  replied,—"  probably  forever.  You  may  have 
heard  we  are  going  away." 

Zinaida  gazed  intently  at  me. 

"  Yes,  I  have  heard.  Thank  you  for  coming. 
I  was  beginning  to  think  that  I  should  not  see 
you.— Think  kindly  of  me.  I  have  sometimes 
tormented  you ;  but  nevertheless  I  am  not  the  sort 
of  person  you  think  I  am." 

She  turned  away  and  leaned  against  the  win- 
dow-casing. 

"  Really,  I  am  not  that  sort  of  person.  I  know 
that  you  have  a  bad  opinion  of  me." 

"I?" 

"  Yes,  you  ....  you." 

"  I? "— I  repeated  sorrowfully,  and  my  heart 
began  to  quiver  as  of  old,  beneath  the  influence  of 
the  irresistible,  inexpressible  witchery.—"  I?  Be- 
lieve me,  Zinaida  Alexandrovna,  whatever  you 
may  have  done,  however  you  may  have  tormented 
me,  I  shall  love  and  adore  you  until  the  end  of  my 
Hfe." 

She  turned  swiftly  toward  me  and  opening  her 
arms  widely,  she  clasped  my  head,  and  kissed  me 
heartily  and  warmly.  God  knows  whom  that 
long,  farewell  kiss  was  seeking,  but  I  eagerly 
tasted  its  sweetness.  I  knew  that  it  would  never 
more  be  repeated.  —  "  Farewell,  farewell!  "  I  kept 
saying.  .  .  . 

She  wrenched  herself  away  and  left  the  room. 
And  I  withdrew  also.     I  am  unable  to  describe 

99 


FIRST  LOVE 

the  feeling  with  which  I  retired.  I  should  not 
wish  ever  to  have  it  repeated;  but  I  should 
consider  myself  unhappy  if  I  had  never  experi- 
enced it. 

We  removed  to  town.  I  did  not  speedily  de- 
tach myself  from  the  past,  I  did  not  speedily  take 
up  my  work.  My  wound  healed  slowly;  but  I 
really  had  no  evil  feeling  toward  my  father.  On 
the  contrary,  he  seemed  to  have  gained  in  stature 
in  my  eyes  ....  let  the  psychologists  explain 
this  contradiction  as  best  they  may.  One  day  I 
was  walking  along  the  boulevard  when,  to  my  in- 
describable joy,  I  encountered  Liishin.  I  liked 
him  for  his  straightforward,  sincere  character; 
and,  moreover,  he  was  dear  to  me  in  virtue  of  the 
memories  which  he  awakened  in  me.  I  rushed  at 
him. 

"  Aha!  "—he  said,  with  a  scowl.—"  Is  it  you, 
young  man?  Come,  let  me  have  a  look  at  you. 
You  are  still  all  sallow,  and  yet  there  is  not  the 
olden  trash  in  your  eyes.  You  look  like  a  man, 
not  like  a  lap-dog.  That 's  good.  Well,  and  how 
are  you?    Are  you  working?" 

I  heaved  a  sigh.  I  did  not  wish  to  lie,  and  I 
was  ashamed  to  tell  the  truth. 

"  Well,  never  mind,"— went  on  Lushin,— 
"  don't  be  afraid.  The  principal  thing  is  to  live 
in  normal  fashion  and  not  to  yield  to  impulses. 
Otherwise,  where  's  the  good  ?  No  matter  whither 
the  wave  bears  one— 't  is  bad;  let  a  man  stand  on 

100 


FIRST  LOVE 

a  stone  if  need  be,  but  on  his  own  feet.  Here  I 
am  croaking  ....  but  ByelovzorofF— have  you 
heard  about  him?  " 

"  What  about  him?    No." 

"  He  has  disappeared  without  leaving  a  trace; 
they  say  he  has  gone  to  the  Caucasus.  A  lesson 
to  you,  young  man.  And  the  whole  thing  arises 
from  not  knowing  how  to  say  good-bye,— to 
break  bonds  in  time.  You,  now,  seem  to  have 
jumped  out  successfully.  Look  out,  don't  fall 
in  again.     Farewell." 

"I  shall  not  fall  in,"-I  thought.  ...  "I 
shall  see  her  no  more."  But  I  was  fated  to  see 
Zinaida  once  more. 

XXI 

My  father  was  in  the  habit  of  riding  on  horseback 
every  day;  he  had  a  splendid  red-roan  English 
horse,  with  a  long,  slender  neck  and  long  legs, 
indefatigable  and  vicious.  Its  name  was  Elec- 
tric. No  one  could  ride  it  except  my  father. 
One  day  he  came  to  me  in  a  kindly  frame  of  mind, 
which  had  not  happened  with  him  for  a  long  time : 
he  was  preparing  to  ride,  and  had  donned  his 
spurs.     I  began  to  entreat  him  to  take  me  with 

him. 

"  Let  us,  rather,  play  at  leap-frog,"— replied 

my  father,—"  for  thou  wilt  not  be  able  to  keep  up 

with  me  on  thy  cob." 

101 


FIRST  LOVE 

*'  Yes,  I  shall;  I  will  put  on  spurs  also." 

"  Well,  come  along." 

We  set  out.  I  had  a  shaggy,  black  little  horse, 
strong  on  its  feet  and  fairly  spirited;  it  had  to 
gallop  with  all  its  might,  it  is  true,  when  Electric 
was  going  at  a  full  trot;  but  nevertheless  I  did 
not  fall  behind.  I  have  never  seen  such  a  horse- 
man as  my  father.  His  seat  was  so  fine  and  so 
carelessly-adroit  that  the  horse  under  him  seemed 
to  be  conscious  of  it  and  to  take  pride  in  it.  We 
rode  the  whole  length  of  all  the  boulevards, 
reached  the  Maidens'  Field,^  leaped  over  several 
enclosures  (at  first  I  was  afraid  to  leap,  but  my 
father  despised  timid  people,  and  I  ceased  to  be 
afraid),  crossed  the  Moscow  river  twice; — and 
I  was  beginning  to  think  that  we  were  on  our  way 
homeward,  the  more  so  as  my  father  remarked 
that  my  horse  was  tired,  when  suddenly  he  turned 
away  from  me  in  the  direction  of  the  Crimean 
Ford,  and  galloped  along  the  shore. — I  dashed 
after  him.  When  he  came  on  a  level  with  a  lofty 
pile  of  old  beams  which  lay  heaped  together,  he 
sprang  nimbly  from  Electric,  ordered  me  to 
alight  and,  handing  me  the  bridle  of  his  horse, 
told  me  to  wait  for  him  on  that  spot,  near  the 
beams ;  then  he  turned  into  a  narrow  alley  and  dis- 

1 A  great  plain  situated  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  So  called 
because  (says  tradition)  it  was  here  that  annually  were  assembled  the 
young  girls  who  were  sent,  in  addition  to  the  money  tribute,  to  the 
Khan,  during  the  Tatar  period,  in  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  cen- 
turies. — Translator. 

102 


FIRST  LOVE 

appeared.  I  began  to  pace  back  and  forth  along 
the  shore,  leading  the  horses  after  me  and  scold- 
ing Electric,  who  as  he  walked  kept  incessantly 
twitching  his  head,  shaking  himself,  snorting  and 
neighing;  when  I  stood  still,  he  alternately 
pawed  the  earth  with  his  hoof,  and  squealed  and 
bit  my  cob  on  the  neck;  in  a  word,  behaved  like 
a  spoiled  darling,  pur  sang.  My  father  did  not 
return.  A  disagreeable  humidity  was  wafted 
from  the  river;  a  fine  rain  set  in  and  mottled  the 
stupid,  grey  beams,  around  which  I  was  hovering 
and  of  which  I  was  so  heartily  tired,  with  tiny, 
dark  spots.  Anxiety  took  possession  of  me,  but 
still  my  father  did  not  come.  A  Finnish  sentry, 
also  all  grey,  with  a  huge,  old-fashioned  shako,  in 
the  form  of  a  pot,  on  his  head,  and  armed  with  a 
halberd  (why  should  there  be  a  sentry,  I  thought, 
on  the  shores  of  the  Moscow  river?),  approached 
me,  and  turning  his  elderly,  wrinkled  face  to  me, 
he  said: 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  with  those  horses, 
my  little  gentleman?  Hand  them  over  to  me; 
I  '11  hold  them." 

I  did  not  answer  him;  he  asked  me  for  some 
tobacco.  In  order  to  rid  myself  of  him  (more- 
over, I  was  tortured  by  impatience),  I  advanced 
a  few  paces  in  the  direction  in  which  my  father 
had  retreated;  then  I  walked  through  the  alley 
to  the  very  end,  turned  a  corner,  and  came  to  a 
standstill.    On  the  street,  forty  paces  distant  from 

103 


FIRST   LOVE 

me,  in  front  of  the  open  window  of  a  small 
wooden  house,  with  his  back  to  me,  stood  my 
father;  he  was  leaning  his  breast  on  the  window- 
sill,  while  in  the  house,  half  concealed  by  the  cur- 
tain, sat  a  woman  in  a  dark  gown  talking  with  my 
father:  the  woman  was  Zinaida. 

I  stood  rooted  to  the  spot  in  amazement.  I 
must  confess  that  I  had  in  nowise  expected  this. 
My  first  impulse  was  to  flee.  "  My  father  will 
glance  round,"  I  thought, — "  and  then  I  am  lost.'* 
....  But  a  strange  feeling — a  feeling  more  pow- 
erful than  curiosity,  more  powerful  even  than 
jealousy,  more  powerful  than  fear, — stopped  me. 
I  began  to  stare,  I  tried  to  hear.  My  father  ap- 
peared to  be  insisting  upon  something.  Zinaida 
would  not  consent.  I  seem  to  see  her  face  now — 
sad,  serious,  beautiful,  and  with  an  indescribable 
imprint  of  adoration,  grief,  love,  and  a  sort  of  de- 
spair. She  uttered  monosyllabic  words,  did  not 
raise  her  eyes,  and  only  smiled — submissively  and 
obstinately.  From  that  smile  alone  I  recognised 
my  former  Zinaida.  My  father  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  set  his  hat  straight  on  his  head — 
which  was  always  a  sign  of  impatience  with  him. 
.  . .  Then  the  words  became  audible :  "  Vous  devez 
vous  separer  de  cette."  ....  Zinaida  drew  her- 
self up  and  stretched  out  her  hand Sud- 
denly, before  my  very  eyes,  an  incredible  thing 
came  to  pass: — all  at  once,  my  father  raised  the 
riding-whip,  with  which  he  had  been  lashing  the 

104 


FIRST  LOVE 

dust  from  his  coat-tails, — and  the  sound  of  a 
sharp  blow  on  that  arm,  which  was  bare  to  the 
elbow,  rang  out.  I  could  hardly  keep  from 
shrieking,  but  Zinaida  started,  gazed  in  silence  at 
my  father,  and  slowly  raising  her  arm  to  her  lips, 
kissed  the  mark  which  glowed  scarlet  upon  it. 

My  father  hurled  his  riding-whip  from  him, 
and  running  hastily  up  the  steps  of  the  porch, 
burst  into  the  house.  .  .  .  Zinaida  turned  round, 
and  stretching  out  her  arms,  and  throwing  back 
her  head,  she  also  quitted  the  window. 

My  heart  swooning  with  terror,  and  with  a  sort 
of  alarmed  perplexity,  I  darted  backward;  and 
dashing  through  the  alley,  and  almost  letting  go 
of  Electric,  I  returned  to  the  bank  of  the  river.  .  . 
I  could  understand  nothing.  I  knew  that  my  cold 
and  self-contained  father  was  sometimes  seized 
by  fits  of  wild  fury;  and  yet  I  could  not  in  the 
least  comprehend  what  I  had  seen.  .  .  .  But  I 
immediately  felt  that  no  matter  how  long  I  might 
live,  it  would  be  impossible  for  me  ever  to  forget 
that  movement,  Zinaida's  glance  and  smile;  that 
her  image,  that  new  image  which  had  suddenly 
been  presented  to  me,  had  forever  imprinted  itself 
on  my  memory.  I  stared  stupidly  at  the  river  and 
did  not  notice  that  my  tears  were  flowing.  "  She 
is  being  beaten,"— I  thought.  ..."  She  is  being 
beaten  ....  beaten  ....'* 

"  Come,  what  ails  thee?— Give  me  my  horse!  " 
—rang  out  my  father's  voice  behind  me. 

105 


FIRST  LOVE 

I  mechanically  gave  him  the  bridle.  He 
sprang  upon  Electric  ....  the  half-frozen 
horse  reared  on  his  hind  legs  and  leaped  forward 
half  a  fathom  ....  but  my  father  speedily  got 
him  under  control;  he  dug  his  spurs  into  his 
flanks  and  beat  him  on  the  neck  with  his  fist.  .  .  , 
"  Ekh,  I  have  no  whip,"— he  muttered. 

I  remembered  the  recent  swish  through  the  air 
and  the  blow  of  that  same  whip,  and  shuddered. 

"  What  hast  thou  done  with  it?  "—I  asked  my 
father,  after  waiting  a  little. 

My  father  did  not  answer  me  and  galloped  on. 
I  dashed  after  him.  I  was  determined  to  get  a 
look  at  his  face. 

"Didst  thou  get  bored  in  my  absence?" — he 
said  through  his  teeth. 

"  A  little.  But  where  didst  thou  drop  thy 
whip?  "—I  asked  him  again. 

My  father  shot  a  swift  glance  at  me.—"  I  did 
not  drop  it,"— he  said,—"  I  threw  it  away."— He 
reflected  for  a  space  and  dropped  his  head  .... 
and  then,  for  the  first  and  probably  for  the  last 
time,  I  saw  how  much  tenderness  and  compunc- 
tion his  stern  features  were  capable  of  express- 
ing. 

He  set  off  again  at  a  gallop,  and  this  time  I 
could  not  keep  up  with  him;  I  reached  home  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  after  him. 

"  That 's  what  love  is,"— I  said  to  myself 
again,  as  I  sat  at  night  before  my  writing-table, 

106 


FIRST  LOVE 

on  which  copy-books  and  text-books  had  already 
begun  to  make  their  appearance,—"  that  is  what 
passion  is !  .  .  .  .  How  is  it  possible  not  to  revolt, 
how  is  it  possible  to  endure  a  blow  from  any  one 
whomsoever  ....  even  from  the  hand  that  is 
most  dear?  But  evidently  it  can  be  done  if  one 
is  in  love.  .  .  .  And  I  ....  I  imagined  .  .  .  ." 

The  last  month  had  aged  me  greatly,  and  my 
love,  with  all  its  agitations  and  sufferings,  seemed 
to  me  like  something  very  petty  and  childish  and 
wretched  in  comparison  with  that  other  unknown 
something  at  which  I  could  hardly  even  guess, 
and  which  frightened  me  like  a  strange,  beauti- 
ful but  menacing  face  that  one  strives,  in  vain, 
to  get  a  good  look  at  in  the  semi-darkness.  .  .  . 

That  night  I  had  a  strange  and  dreadful 
dream.  I  thought  I  was  entering  a  low,  dark 
room My  father  was  standing  there,  rid- 
ing-whip in  hand,  and  stamping  his  feet ;  Zinaida 
was  crouching  in  one  corner  and  had  a  red  mark, 
not  on  her  arm,  but  on  her  forehead  ....  and 
behind  the  two  rose  up  ByelovzorofF,  all  bathed 
in  blood,  with  his  pale  lips  open,  and  wrathfully 
menacing  my  father. 

Two  months  later  I  entered  the  university,  and 
six  months  afterward  my  father  died  (of  an  apo- 
plectic stroke)  in  Petersburg,  whither  he  had  just 
removed  with  my  mother  and  myself.  A  few 
days  before  his  death  my  father  had  received  a 
letter  from  Moscow  which  had  agitated  him  ex- 

107 


FIRST  LOVE 

tremely.  .  .  .  He  went  to  beg  something  of  my 
mother  and,  I  was  told,  even  wept, — he,  my  fa- 
ther! On  the  very  morning  of  the  day  on  which 
he  had  the  stroke,  he  had  begun  a  letter  to  me  in 
the  French  language:  "My  son,"— he  wrote  to 
me, — "  fear  the  love  of  women,  fear  that  happi- 
ness, that  poison  .  .  .  ."  After  his  death  my  mo- 
ther sent  a  very  considerable  sum  of  money  to 
Moscow. 

XXII 

Four  years  passed.  I  had  but  just  left  the  uni- 
versity, and  did  not  yet  quite  know  what  to  do  with 
myself,  at  what  door  to  knock;  in  the  meanwhile, 
I  was  lounging  about  without  occupation.  One 
fine  evening  I  encountered  Maidanoff  in  the 
theatre.  He  had  contrived  to  marry  and  enter  the 
government  service ;  but  I  found  him  unchanged. 
He  went  into  unnecessary  raptures,  just  as  of 
old,  and  became  low-spirited  as  suddenly  as  ever. 

"  You  know,"— he  said  to  me, — "  by  the  way, 
that  Madame  Dolsky  is  here." 

"  What  Madame  Dolsky?  " 

"Is  it  possible  that  you  have  forgotten?  The 
former  Princess  Zasyekin,  with  whom  we  were 
all  in  love,  you  included.  At  the  villa,  near  Nes- 
kiitchny  Park,  you  remember?  " 

"  Did  she  marry  Dolsky?  " 

"  Yes." 

108 


FIRST  LOVE 

"And  is  she  here  in  the  theatre?" 

"No,  in  Petersburg;  she  arrived  here  a  few 
days  ago;  she  is  preparing  to  go  abroad. 

"What  sort  of  a  man  is  her  husband?"— I 
asked. 

"  A  very  fine  young  fellow  and  wealthy.  He  's 
my  comrade  in  the  service,  a  Moscow  man.  You 
understand — after  that  scandal  ....  you  must 
be  well  acquainted  with  all  that  .  .  .  ."  (Mai- 
danofF  smiled  significantly) ,  "  it  was  not  easy  for 
her  to  find  a  husband;  there  were  consequences 
....  but  with  her  brains  everything  is  possible. 
Go  to  her;  she  will  be  delighted  to  see  you.  She 
is  handsomer  than  ever." 

MaidanolF  gave  me  Zinaida's  address.  She 
was  stopping  in  the  Hotel  Demuth.  Old  memo- 
ries began  to  stir  in  me.  ...  I  promised  mj^self 
that  I  would  call  upon  my  former  "  passion  "  the 
next  day.  But  certain  affairs  turned  up :  a  week 
elapsed,  and  when,  at  last,  I  betook  myself  to  the 
Hotel  Demuth  and  inquired  for  Madame  Dolsky 
I  learned  that  she  had  died  four  days  previously, 
almost  suddenly,  in  childbirth. 

Something  seemed  to  deal  me  a  blow  in  the 
heart.  The  thought  that  I  might  have  seen  her 
but  had  not,  and  that  I  should  never  see  her,— that 
bitter  thought  seized  upon  me  with  all  the  force 
of  irresistible  reproach.  "Dead!"  I  repeated, 
staring  dully  at  the  door-porter,  then  quietly 
made  my  way  to  the  street  and  walked  away,  with- 

109 


FIRST  LOVE 

out  knowing  whither.  The  whole  past  surged  up 
at  one  blow  and  stood  before  me.  And  now  this 
was  the  way  it  had  ended,  this  was  the  goal  of  that 
young,  fiery,  brilliant  life?  I  thought  that— I 
pictured  to  myself  those  dear  features,  those  eyes, 
those  curls  in  the  narrow  box,  in  the  damp,  under- 
ground gloom, — right  there,  not  far  from  me, 
who  was  still  alive,  and,  perchance,  only  a  few 
paces  from  my  father.  ...  I  thought  all  that, 
I  strained  my  imagination,  and  yet — 

From  a  mouth  indifferent  I  heard  the  news  of  death, 
And  with  indifference  did  I  receive  it — 

resounded  through  my  soul.  O  youth,  youth! 
Thou  carest  for  nothing:  thou  possessest,  as  it 
were,  all  the  treasures  of  the  universe;  even  sor- 
row comforts  thee,  even  melancholy  becomes  thee ; 
thou  are  self-confident  and  audacious;  thou  say- 
est:  "I  alone  live — behold!" — But  the  days 
speed  on  and  vanish  without  a  trace  and  without 
reckoning,  and  everything  vanishes  in  thee,  like 
wax  in  the  sun,  like  snow.  .  .  .  And  perchance 
the  whole  secret  of  thy  charm  consists  not  in  the 
power  to  do  everything,  but  in  the  possibility  of 
thinking  that  thou  wilt  do  everything— consists 
precisely  in  the  fact  that  thou  scatterest  to  the 
winds  thy  powers  which  thou  hast  not  understood 
how  to  employ  in  any  other  way, — in  the  fact  that 
each  one  of  us  seriously  regards  himself  as  a 
prodigal,  seriously  assumes  that  he  has  a  right  to 

110 


FIRST  LOVE 

say:  "  Oh,  what  could  I  not  have  done,  had  I  not 
wasted  my  time !  " 

And  I  myself  .  .  .  what  did  I  hope  for,  what 
did  I  expect,  what  rich  future  did  I  foresee,  when 
I  barely  accompanied  with  a  single  sigh,  with 
a  single  mournful  emotion,  the  spectre  of  my 
first  love  which  had  arisen  for  a  brief  moment? 

And  what  has  come  to  pass  of  all  for  which  I 
hoped?  Even  now,  when  the  shades  of  evening 
are  beginning  to  close  in  upon  my  life,  what  is 
there  that  has  remained  for  me  fresher,  more 
precious  than  the  memory  of  that  morning  spring 
thunder-storm  which  sped  so  swiftly  past? 

But  I  calumniate  myself  without  cause.  Even 
then,  at  that  frivolous,  youthful  epoch,  I  did  not 
remain  deaf  to  the  sorrowful  voice  which  re- 
sponded within  me  to  the  triumphant  sound 
which  was  wafted  to  me  from  beyond  the  grave. 
I  remember  that  a  few  days  after  I  learned  of 
Zinaida's  death  I  was  present,  by  my  own  irre- 
sistible longing,  at  the  death-bed  of  a  poor  old 
woman  who  lived  in  the  same  house  with  us. 
Covered  with  rags,  with  a  sack  under  her  head, 
she  died  heavily  and  with  difficulty.  Her  whole 
life  had  been  passed  in  a  bitter  struggle  with  daily 
want;  she  had  seen  no  joy,  she  had  not  tasted  the 
honey  of  happiness— it  seemed  as  though  she 
could  not  have  failed  to  rejoice  at  death,  at  her 
release,  her  repose.  But  nevertheless,  as  long  as 
her  decrepit  body  held  out,  as  long  as  her  breast 

111 


FIRST  LOVE 

heaved  under  the  icy  hand  which  was  laid  upon  it, 
until  her  last  strength  deserted  her,  the  old  wo- 
man kept  crossing  herself  and  whispering: — "  O 
Lord,  forgive  my  sins," — and  only  with  the  last 
spark  of  consciousness  did  there  vanish  from  her 
eyes  the  expression  of  fear  and  horror  at  her  ap- 
proaching end.  And  I  remember  that  there,  by 
the  bedside  of  that  poor  old  woman,  I  felt  terri- 
fied for  Zinaida,  and  felt  like  praying  for  her,  for 
my  father— and  for  myself. 


112 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

(1855) 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

SEVERAL  years  ago  I  was  in  Dresden.  I 
stopped  in  the  hotel.  As  I  was  running 
about  the  town  from  early  morning  until  late  at 
night,  I  did  not  consider  it  necessary  to  make  ac- 
quaintance with  my  neighbours;  at  last,  acciden- 
tally, it  came  to  my  knowledge  that  there  was  a 
sick  Russian  in  the  house.  I  went  to  him,  and 
found  a  man  in  the  last  stage  of  consumption. 
Dresden  was  beginning  to  pall  upon  me ;  I  settled 
down  with  my  new  acquaintance.  It  is  wearisome 
to  sit  with  an  invalid,  but  even  boredom  is  agree- 
able sometimes ;  moreover,  my  invalid  was  not  de- 
jected, and  liked  to  chat.  We  endeavoured,  in 
every  way,  to  kill  time:  we  played  "fool"  to- 
gether, we  jeered  at  the  doctor.  My  compatriot 
narrated  to  that  very  bald  German  divers  fictions 
about  his  own  condition,  which  the  doctor  always 
"  had  long  foreseen  " ;  he  mimicked  him  when  he 
was  surprised  at  any  unprecedented  attack,  flung 
his  medicine  out  of  the  window,  and  so  forth. 

Nevertheless  I  repeatedly  remarked  to  my 
friend  that  it  would  not  be  a  bad  idea  to  send  for 
a  good  physician  before  it  was  too  late,  that  his 
malady  was  not  to  be  jested  with,  and  so  forth. 

115 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

But  Alexyei  (my  acquaintance's  name  was  Alex- 
yei  Petrovitch  S***)  put  me  off  every  time  with 
jests  about  all  doctors  in  general,  and  his  own  in 
particular,  and  at  last,  one  stormy  autumn  even- 
ing, to  my  importunate  entreaties,  he  replied  with 
such  a  dejected  glance,  he  shook  his  head  so  sadly, 
and  smiled  so  strangely,  that  I  felt  a  certain  sur- 
prise. That  same  night  Alexyei  grew  worse,  and 
on  the  following  day  he  died.  Just  before  his 
death  his  customary  cheerfulness  deserted  him :  he 
tossed  uneasily  in  the  bed,  sighed,  gazed  anx- 
iously about  ....  grasped  my  hand,  whispered 
with  an  effort:  "  'T  is  difficult  to  die,  you  know," 
....  dropped  his  head  on  the  pillow,  and  burst 
into  tears.  I  did  not  know  what  to  say  to  him, 
and  sat  silently  beside  his  bed.  But  Alexyei 
speedily  conquered  this  last,  belated  compassion. 
..."  Listen,"  he  said  to  me: — "  our  doctor  will 

come  to-day,  and  will  find  me  dead I  can 

imagine   his   phiz "  .  .  .  .  and   the   dying   man 

tried  to  mimic  him He  requested  me  to 

send  all  his  things  to  Russia,  to  his  relatives,  with 
the  exception  of  a  small  packet,  which  he  pre- 
sented to  me  as  a  souvenir. 

This  packet  contained  letters — the  letters  of  a 
young  girl  to  Alexyei  and  his  letters  to  her. 
There  were  fifteen  of  them  in  all.  Alexyei  Pe- 
trovitch S***  had  known  Marya  Alexandrovna 
B***  for  a  long  time— from  childhood,  appar- 
ently.   Alexyei  Petrovitch  had  a  cousin,  and  Ma- 

116 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

rya  Alexandrovna  had  a  sister.  In  earlier  years 
they  had  all  lived  together,  then  they  had  dis- 
persed, and  had  not  met  again  for  a  long  time; 
then  they  had  accidentally  all  assembled  again  in 
the  country,  in  summer,  and  had  fallen  in  love — 
Alexyei's  cousin  with  Marya  Alexandrovna,  and 
Alexyei  himself  with  the  latter's  sister.  Summer 
passed  and  autumn  came;  they  parted.  Alexyei 
being  a  sensible  man,  speedily  became  convinced 
that  he  was  not  in  the  least  beloved,  and  parted 
from  his  beauty  very  happily;  his  cousin  corre- 
sponded with  Marya  Alexandrovna  for  a  couple 
of  years  longer  ....  but  even  he  divined,  at  last, 
that  he  was  deceiving  both  her  and  himself  in  the 
most  unconscionable  manner,  and  he  also  fell 
silent. 

I  should  like  to  tell  you  a  little  about  Marya 
Alexandrovna,  dear  reader,  but  you  will  learn  to 
know  her  for  yourself  from  her  letters.  Alexyei 
wrote  his  first  letter  to  her  soon  after  her  defini- 
tive breach  with  his  cousin.  He  was  in  Peters- 
burg at  the  time,  suddenly  went  abroad,  fell  ill  in 
Dresden  and  died.  I  have  decided  to  publish  his 
correspondence  with  jNIarya  Alexandrovna,  and 
I  hope  for  some  indulgence  on  the  part  of  the 
reader,  because  these  are  not  love-letters — God 
forbid!  Love-letters  are  generally  read  by  two 
persons  only  (but,  on  the  other  hand,  a  thousand 
times  in  succession),  and  are  intolerable,  if  not 
ridiculous,  to  a  third  person. 

117 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 


From  Alexyei  Petrovitch  to  Mary  a 
Alexdndrovna 

St.  Petersburg,  March  7,  1840. 
My  dear  Marya  Alexandrovna! 

I  have  never  yet  written  to  you  a  single  time,  I 
think,  and  here  I  am  writing  now.  ...  I  have 
chosen  a  strange  time,  have  I  not?  This  is  what 
has  prompted  me  to  it :  Mon  cousin  Theodore  has 
been  to  see  me  to-day,  and— how  shall  I  say  it? 
....  and  has  informed  me,  in  the  strictest  pri- 
vacy (he  never  imparts  anything  in  any  other 
way) ,  that  he  is  in  love  with  the  daughter  of  some 
gentleman  here,  and  this  time  is  bent  on  marrying 
without  fail,  and  that  he  has  already  taken  the 
first  step— he  has  explained  his  intentions!  As 
a  matter  of  course,  I  hastened  to  congratulate 
him  on  an  event  so  pleasant  for  him ;  he  has  long 
stood  in  need  of  an  explanation  ....  but  in- 
wardly I  was,  I  confess,  somewhat  amazed.  Al- 
though I  knew  that  everything  was  over  between 
you,  yet  it  seemed  to  me  ....  In  a  word,  I  was 
amazed.  I  was  preparing  to  go  out  visiting  to- 
day, but  I  have  remained  at  home,  and  intend  to 
have  a  little  chat  with  you.  If  you  do  not  care  to 
listen  to  me,  throw  this  letter  into  the  fire  imme- 
diately.   I  declare  to  you  that  I  wish  to  be  frank, 

118 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

although  I  feel  that  you  have  a  perfect  right  to 
take  me  for  a  decidedly-intrusive  man.  Observe, 
however,  that  I  would  not  have  taken  pen  in  hand 
if  I  had  not  known  that  your  sister  is  not  with 
you:  Theodore  told  me  that  she  will  be  away  all 
summer  visiting  your  aunt,  Madame  B***.  May 
God  grant  her  all  good  things! 

So,  then,  this  is  the  way  it  has  all  turned  out. . . 
But  I  shall  not  offer  you  my  friendship,  and  so 
forth;  in  general,  I  avoid  solemn  speeches,  and 
"intimate  "  effusions.  In  beginning  to  write  this 
letter,  I  have  simply  obeyed  some  momentary 
impulse :  if  any  other  feeling  is  hiding  within  me, 
let  it  remain  hidden  from  sight  for  the  present. 

Neither  shall  I  attempt  to  console  you.  In 
consoling  others,  people  generally  desire  to  rid 
themselves,  as  speedily  as  possible,  of  the  un- 
pleasant feeling   of   involuntary,   self -conceited 

compassion I  understand  sincere,  warm 

sympathy  ....  but  such  sympathy  is  not  to  be 
got  from  every  one.  .  .  .  Please  be  angry  with 
me.  .  .  If  you  are  angry,  you  will  probably  read 
my  epistle  to  the  end. 

But  what  right  have  I  to  write  to  you,  to  talk 
about  my  friendship,  my  feelings,  about  consola- 
tion? None  whatever— positively,  none  what- 
ever; and  I  am  bound  to  admit  that,  and  I  rely 
solely  upon  your  kindness. 

Do  you  know  what  the  beginning  of  my  letter 
resembles?    This:  a  certain  Mr.  N.  N.  entered  the 

119 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

drawing-room  of  a  lady  who  was  not  in  the  least 
expecting  him, — who,  perhaps,  was  expecting 
another  man.  .  .  .  He  divined  that  he  had  come 
at  the  wrong  time,  but  there  was  nothing  to  be 
done.  .  .  .  He  sat  down,  and  began  to  talk  .... 
God  knows  what  about:  poetry,  the  beauties  of 
nature,  the  advantages  of  a  good  education  .... 
in  a  word,  he  talked  the  most  frightful  nonsense. 
.  .  .  But  in  the  meanwhile  the  first  five  minutes 
had  elapsed;  he  sat  on;  the  lady  resigned  herself 
to  her  fate,  and  lo!  Mr.  N.  N.  recovered  himself, 
sighed,  and  began  to  converse— to  the  best  of  his 
ability. 

But,  despite  all  this  idle  chatter,  I  feel  some- 
what awkward,  nevertheless.  I  seem  to  see  be- 
fore me  your  perplexed,  even  somewhat  angry 
face:  I  feel  conscious  that  it  is  almost  impos- 
sible for  you  not  to  assume  that  I  have  some  se- 
cret intentions  or  other,  and  therefore,  having 
perpetrated  a  piece  of  folly,  hke  a  Roman  I  wrap 
myself  in  my  toga  and  await  in  silence  your 
ultimate  condemnation.  ... 

But,  in  particular :  Will  you  permit  me  to  con- 
tinue to  write  to  you? 

I  remain  sincerely  and  cordially  your  devoted 
servant — 

AUEXYEI  S***. 


12Q 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 


II 

From  Mary  a  Alexdndrovna  to  AlexySi 
Petrovitch 

Village  of  ...  .  no,  March  22,  1840. 

Dear  Sir! 
Alexyei  Petrovitch! 

I  have  received  your  letter,  and  really,  I  do  not 
know  what  to  say  to  you.  I  would  even  not  have 
answered  you  at  all  had  it  not  seemed  to  me  that 
beneath  your  jests  was  concealed  a  decidedly- 
friendly  sentiment.  Your  letter  has  produced  an 
unpleasant  impression  on  me.  In  reply  to  your 
"  idle  chatter,"  as  you  put  it,  permit  me  also  to 
propound  to  you  one  question:  To  what  end? 
What  have  you  to  do  with  me,  what  have  I  to  do 
with  you?  I  do  not  assume  any  evil  intentions  on 
your  part,  ....  on  the  contrary,  I  am  grateful 
to  you  for  your  sympathy,  ....  but  we  are 
strangers  to  each  other,  and  I  now,  at  all  events, 
feel  not  the  slightest  desire  to  become  intimate 
with  any  one  whomsoever. 

With  sincere  respects  I  remain,  and  so  forth, 

Marya  B***. 


121 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 


III 

From  Alexyei  Petrovitch  to  Mary  a 
Aleccdndrovna 

St.  Petersburg,  March  30. 

I  thank  you,  Marya  Alexandrovna,  I  thank 
you  for  your  note,  curt  as  it  is.  All  this  time  I 
have  been  in  a  state  of  great  agitation;  twenty 
times  a  day  I  have  thought  of  you  and  of  my  let- 
ter. You  can  imagine  how  caustically  I  have 
laughed  at  myself;  but  now  I  am  in  a  capital 
frame  of  mind,  and  am  patting  myself  on  the 
head.  Marya  Alexandrovna,  I  am  entering  into 
correspondence  with  you!  Confess  that  you 
could  not  possibly  have  expected  that  after  your 
reply;  I  am  amazed  at  my  own  audacity  .... 
never  mind!  But  calm  yourself:  I  want  to 
talk  to  you  not  about  myself,  but  about  you. 
Here,  do  you  see :  I  find  it  imperatively  necessary 
— to  speak  in  antiquated  style— to  express  my- 
self to  some  one.  I  have  no  right  to  select  you 
for  my  confidante— I  admit  that;  but  hearken:  I 
demand  from  you  no  reply  to  my  epistles;  I  do 
not  even  wish  to  know  whether  you  will  peruse 
my  "  idle  chatter,"  but  do  not  send  me  back  my 
letters,  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  holy! 

Listen — I  am  utterly  alone  on  earth.  In  my 
youth  I  led  a  solitary  life,  although,  I  remember, 

122 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

I  never  pretended  to  be  a  Byron ;  but,  in  the  first 
place,  circumstances,  in  the  second  place,  the 
ability  to  dream  and  a  love  for  reverie,  rather  cold 
blood,  pride,  indolence — in  a  word,  a  multitude  of 
varied  causes  alienated  me  from  the  society  of 
men.  The  transition  from  a  dreamy  to  an  active 
life  was  effected  in  me  late  .  .  .  perhaps  too 
late,  perhaps  to  this  day  not  completely.  So  long 
as  my  own  thoughts  and  feelings  diverted  me,  so 
long  as  I  was  capable  of  surrendering  myself  to 
causeless  silent  raptures,  and  so  forth,  I  did  not 
complain  of  my  isolation.  I  had  no  comrades— I 
did  have  so-called  friends.  Sometimes  I  needed 
their  presence  as  an  electrical  machine  needs  a  dis- 
charger— that  was  all.  Love  ....  we  will  be 
silent  on  that  subject  for  the  present.  But  now, 
I  confess,  now  loneliness  weighs  upon  me,  and 
yet  I  see  no  escape  from  my  situation.  I  do  not 
blame  Fate;  I  alone  am  to  blame,  and  I  am  justly 
chastised.  In  my  youth  one  thing  alone  interested 
me:  my  charming  ego;  I  took  my  good-natured 
self-love  for  shyness;  I  shunned  society,  and  lo! 
now  I  am  frightfully  bored  with  myself.  What 
is  to  become  of  me?  I  love  no  one ;  all  my  friend- 
ships with  other  people  are,  somehow,  strained  and 
false ;  and  I  have  no  memories,  because  in  all  my 
past  life,  I  find  nothing  except  my  own  self. 
Save  me!  I  have  not  made  you  enthusiastic  vows 
of  love;  I  have  not  deafened  you  with  a  torrent 
of  chattering  speeches;  I  have  passed  you  by 

123 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

with  considerable  coldness,  and  precisely  for  that 
reason  I  have  made  up  my  mind  now  to  have 
recourse  to  you.      (I  had  thought  of  this  even 

earlier,    but    you    were    not    free    then ) 

Out  of  all  my  self-made  joys  and  sufferings,  the 
sole  genuine  feeling  was  the  small,  but  involun- 
tary attraction  to  you,  which  withered  then,  like  a 
solitary  ear  of  grain  amid  worthless  weeds.  .  .  . 
Allow  me,  at  least,  to  look  into  another  face,  an- 
other soul, — my  own  face  has  grown  repugnant  to 
me ;  I  am  like  a  man  who  has  been  condemned  to 
live  out  his  entire  life  in  a  room  with  walls  made 
of  mirrors.  ...  I  do  not  demand  any  confes- 
sions from  you — oh,  heavens,  no!  Grant  me  the 
speechless  sympathy  of  a  sister,  or  at  least  the 
simple  curiosity  of  a  reader— I  will  interest  you, 
really,  I  will. 

At  any  rate,  I  have  the  honour  to  be  your  sin- 
cere friend, 

A.  S. 

IV 

From  Alexyei  Petrovitch  to  Mary  a 
Aleocdndrovna 

Petersburg,  April  7th. 

I  write  again  to  you,  although  I  foresee  that, 

without  your  approval,  I  shall  speedily  hold  my 

peace.    I  must  admit  that  you  cannot  fail  to  feel 

a  certain  distrust  of  me.    What  of  that?    Perhaps 

124 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

you  are  right.  Formerly  I  would  have  declared 
to  you  (and,  probably,  would  have  believed  my 
own  words)  that,  since  we  parted,  I  had  "  devel- 
oped," had  advanced;  with  condescending,  almost 
aiFectionate  scorn  I  would  have  referred  to  my 
past;  with  touching  boastfulness  I  would  have 
initiated  you  into  the  secrets  of  my  present,  active 
life  ....  but  now,  I  assure  you,  Marya  Ale- 
xandrovna,  I  consider  it  shameful  and  disgusting 
to  allude  to  the  way  in  which  my  vile  self-love 
once  on  a  time  fermented  and  amused  itself. 
Fear  not:  I  shall  not  force  upon  you  any  great 
truths,  any  profound  views;  I  have  none — none 
of  those  truths  and  views.  I  have  become  a  nice 
fellow, — truly  I  have.  I  'm  bored,  Marya  Ale- 
xandrovna — so  bored  that  I  can  endure  it  no 
longer.  That  is  why  I  am  writing  to  you.  .  .  . 
Really,  it  seems  to  me  that  we  can  come  to  an 

agreement 

However,  I  positively  am  in  no  condition  to 
talk  to  you  until  you  stretch  out  your  hand  to  me, 
until  I  receive  from  you  a  note  with  the  one  word 
"  Yes." — Marya  Alexandrovna,  will  you  hear 
me  out? — that  is  the  question. 

Yours  truly, 

A.  S. 


125 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 


V 


From  Mary  a  Alexdndrovna  to  Alexyei 
Petrovitch 

Village  of  ...  .  no,  April  14. 
What  a  strange  man  you  are!    Well,  then- 
yes." 

Marya  B***. 


VI 

From  Alexyei  Petrovitch  to  Mary  a 
Alexdndrovna 

Petersburg,  May  2,  1840. 

Hurrah!  Thanks,  Marya  Alexandrovna, 
thanks!  You  are  a  very  kind  and  indulgent 
being. 

I  begin,  according  to  my  promise,  to  speak  of 
myself,  and  I  shall  speak  with  pleasure,  verging 
on  appetite.  .  .  .  Precisely  that.  One  may  talk 
of  everything  in  the  world  with  fervour,  with  rap- 
ture, with  enthusiasm,  but  only  of  one's  self  can 
one  talk  with  appetite. 

Listen:  an  extremely  strange  incident  hap- 
pened to  me  the  other  day :  I  took  a  glance  at  my 
past  for  the  first  time.  You  will  understand  me : 
every  one  of  us  frequently  recalls  the  past— with 

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A  CORRESPONDENCE 

compunction  or  with  vexation,  or  simply  for  the 
lack  of  something  to  do ;  but  only  at  a  certain  age 
can  one  cast  a  cold,  clear  glance  at  his  whole  past 
life— as  a  traveller,  turning  round,  gazes  from  a 
lofty  mountain  upon  the  plain  which  he  has  tra- 
versed ....  and  a  secret  chill  grips  the  heart  of 
a  man  when  this  happens  to  him  for  the  first  time. 
At  any  rate,  my  heart  contracted  with  pain.  So 
long  as  we  are  young,  that  sort  of  looking  back- 
ward is  impossible.  But  my  youth  is  over— and, 
like  the  traveller  on  the  mountain,  everything  has 
become  clearly  visible  to  me.  .  .  . 

Yes,  my  youth  is  gone,  gone  irrevocably!  .  .  . 
Here  it  lies  before  me,  all  of  it,  as  though  in  the 
palm  of  my  hand.  .  .  . 

'T  is  not  a  cheerful  spectacle !  I  confess  to  you, 
Marya  Alexandrovna,  that  I  am  very  sorry  for 
myself.  My  God!  My  God!  Is  it  possible  that 
I  myself  have  ruined  my  own  life  to  such  a  de- 
gree, have  so  ruthlessly  entangled  and  tortured 
myself?  .  .  .  Now  I  have  come  to  my  senses,  but 
it  is  too  late.  Have  you  ever  rescued  a  fly  from 
a  spider?  You  have?  Do  you  remember,  you 
placed  it  in  the  sunshine;  its  wings,  its  legs  were 
stuck  together,  glued  fast.  .  .  .  How  awk- 
wardly it  moved,  how  clumsily  it  tried  to  clean 
itself!  .  .  .  After  long-continued  efforts,  it  got 
itself  to  rights,  after  a  fashion;  it  crawled,  it 
tried  to  put  its  wings  in  order  ....  but  it  could 
not  walk  as  it  formerly  did;  it  could  not  buzz, 

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A  CORRESPONDENCE 

care-free,  in  the  sunshine,  now  flying  through  an 
open  window  into  a  cool  room,  again  fluttering 
freely  out  into  the  hot  air.  ...  It,  at  all  events, 
did  not  fall  into  the  dreadful  net  of  its  own  free 
will  ....  but  I! 

I  was  my  own  spider. 

And,  nevertheless,  I  cannot  blame  myself  so 
very  much.  Yes,  and  who— tell  me,  for  mercy's 
sake— who  ever  was  to  blame  for  anything— 
alone?  Or,  to  put  it  more  accurately,  we  are  all 
to  blame,  yet  it  is  impossible  to  blame  us.  Cir- 
cumstances settle  our  fate :  they  thrust  us  into  this 
road  or  that,  and  then  they  punish  us.  Every  man 
has  his  fate.  .  .  .  Wait,  wait!  There  occurs  to 
my  mind  on  this  score  an  artfully-constructed  but 
just  comparison.  As  clouds  are  first  formed  by 
the  exhalations  from  the  earth,  rise  up  from  its 
bosom,  then  separate  themselves  from  it,  withdraw 
from  it,  and  bear  over  it  either  blessings  or  ruin, 
just  so  around  each  one  of  us  and  from  us  our- 
selves is  formed— how  shall  I  express  it?— is 
formed  a  sort  of  atmosphere  which  afterward 
acts  destructively  or  salutarily  upon  us  ourselves. 
This  I  call  Fate.  ...  In  other  words,  and  to 
put  it  simply:  each  person  makes  his  own  fate, 
and  it  makes  each  person.  .  .  . 

Each  person  makes  his  own  fate — yes!  .  .  . 
but  our  brethren  make  it  far  too  much — which 
constitutes  our  calamity!  Consciousness  is 
aroused  in  us  too  early ;  too  early  do  we  begin  to 

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A  CORRESPONDENCE 

observe  ourselves.  .  .  .  We  Russians  have  no 
other  life-problem  than  the  cultivation  of  our  per- 
sonality, and  here  we,  barely  adult  children,  al- 
ready undertake  to  cultivate  it,  this  our  unhappy 
personality!  Without  having  received  from 
within  any  definite  direction,  in  reality  respect- 
ing nothing,  believing  firmly  in  nothing,  we  are 
free  to  make  of  ourselves  whatsoever  we  will. 
....  But  it  is  impossible  to  demand  of  every 
man  that  he  shall  immediately  comprehend  the 
sterility  of  a  mind,  "  seething  in  empty  activ- 
ity "...  .  and  so,  there  is  one  more  monster 
in  the  world,  one  more  of  those  insignifi- 
cant beings  in  which  the  habits  of  self-love  dis- 
tort the  very  striving  after  truth,  and  ridiculous 
ingenuousness  lives  side  by  side  with  pitiful 
guile  ....  one  of  those  beings  to  whose  impo- 
tent, uneasy  thought  there  remains  forever  un- 
known either  the  satisfaction  of  natural  activity, 
or  the  genuine  suffering,  or  the  genuine  triumph 
of  conviction.  .  .  .  Combining  in  itself  the  de- 
fects of  all  ages,  we  deprive  each  defect  of  its 
good,  its  redeeming  side.  .  .  .  We  are  as  stupid 
as  children,  but  we  are  not  sincere  like  them;  we 
are  as  cold  as  old  men,  but  the  common  sense  of 
old  age  is  not  in  us.  .  .  On  the  other  hand,  we  are 
psychologists.  Oh, yes, we  are  great  psychologists! 
But  our  psychology  strays  off  into  pathology ;  our 
psychology  is  an  artful  study  of  the  laws  of  a  dis- 
eased condition  and  a  diseased  development,  with 

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A  CORRESPONDENCE 

which  healthy  people  have  no  concern.  .  .  .  But 
the  chief  thing  is,  we  are  not  young, — in  youth 
itself  we  are  not  young ! 

And  yet — why  calumniate  one's  self?  Have  we 
really  never  been  young?  Have  the  vital  forces 
never  sparkled,  never  seethed,  never  quivered  in 
us?  Yet  we  have  been  in  Arcadia,  and  we  have 
roved  its  bright  meads !  .  .  .  Have  you  ever  hap- 
pened, while  strolling  among  bushes,  to  hit  upon 
those  dark-hued  harvest-flies,  which,  springing 
out  from  under  your  very  feet,  suddenly  expand 
their  bright  red  wings  with  a  clatter,  flutter  on  a 
few  paces,  and  then  tumble  into  the  grass  again? 
Just  so  did  our  dark  youth  sometimes  expand  its 
gaily-coloured  little  wings  for  a  few  moments, 
and  a  brief  flight.  .  .  .  Do  you  remember  our 
silent  evening  rambles,  the  four  of  us  together, 
along  the  fence  of  your  park,  after  some  long, 
warm,  animated  conversation?  Do  you  remem- 
ber those  gracious  moments?  Nature  received 
us  affectionately  and  majestically  into  her  lap. 
We  entered,  with  sinking  heart,  into  some  sort  of 
blissful  waves.  Round  about  the  glow  of  sunset 
kindled  with  sudden  and  tender  crimson;  from 
the  crimsoning  sky,  from  the  illuminated  earth, 
from  everywhere,  it  seemed  as  though  the  fresh 
and  fiery  breath  of  youth  were  wafted  abroad, 
and  the  joyous  triumph  of  some  immortal  happi- 
ness; the  sunset  glow  blazed;  like  it,  softly  and 
passionately  blazed  our  enraptured  hearts,  and 

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A  CORRESPONDENCE 

the  tiny  leaves  of  the  young  trees  quivered  sen- 
sitively and  confusedly  above  us,  as  though  re- 
plying to  the  inward  tremulousness  of  the  indis- 
tinct feelings  and  anticipations  within  us.  Do 
you  remember  that  purity,  that  kindness  and 
trustfulness  of  ideas,  that  emotion  of  noble  hopes, 
that  silence  of  plenitude?  Can  it  be  that  we  were 
not  then  worthy  of  something  better  than  that 
to  which  life  has  conducted  us?  Why  have  we 
been  fated  only  at  rare  intervals  to  catch  sight 
of  the  longed-for  shore,  and  never  to  stand 
thereon  with  firm  foothold,  never  to  touch  it — 

Not  to  weep  sweetly,  like  the  first  of  the  Jews 
On  the  borders  of  the  Promised  Land  ? 

These  two  lines  of  Fet  ^  have  reminded  me  of 
others, — also  by  him.  .  .  .  Do  you  remember 
how  one  day,  as  we  were  standing  in  the  road,  we 
beheld  in  the  distance  a  cloud  of  rosy  dust,  raised 
by  a  light  breeze,  against  the  setting  sun?  "  In 
a  billowy  cloud  "  you  began,  and  we  all  fell  silent 
on  the  instant,  and  set  to  listening: 

In  a  billowy  cloud 
The  dust  rises  in  the  distance.  .  .  , 
Whether  horseman  or  pedestrian — 
Cannot  be  descried  for  the  dust. 

*  Afandsy  Afanasievitch  Shenshin  (1820-1893)  always  wrote 
under  this  name. —Translator. 

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A  CORRESPONDENCE 

I  see  some  one  galloping 
On  a  spirited  steed.  .  .   . 
My  friend,  my  distant  friend — 
Remember  me! 

You  ceased.  .  .  .  All  of  us  fairly  shuddered, 
as  though  the  breath  of  love  had  flitted  over  our 
hearts,  and  each  one  of  us— I  am  convinced  of 
that — longed  inexpressibly  to  flee  away  in  the 
distance,  that  unknown  distance,  where  the  appa- 
rition of  bliss  rises  up  and  beckons  athwart  the 
mist.  And  yet,  observe  this  odd  thing:  why 
should  we  reach  out  into  the  distance?— we 
thought.  Were  not  we  in  love  with  each  other? 
Was  not  happiness  "  so  near,  so  possible  "  ?  And 
I  immediately  asked  you:  "Why  have  not  we 
gained  the  shore  we  long  for?  "  Because  false- 
hood was  walking  hand  in  hand  with  us;  because 
it  was  poisoning  our  best  sentiments;  because 
everything  in  us  was  artificial  and  strained;  be- 
cause we  did  not  love  each  other  at  all,  and  only 
tried  to  love,  imagined  that  we  did  love 

But  enough,  enough!  Why  irritate  one's 
wounds?  Moreover,  all  that  is  past  irrevocably. 
That  which  ^vas  good  in  our  past  has  touched  me, 
and  on  this  good  I  bid  you  farewell  for  the  time 
being.  And  it  is  time  to  end  this  long  letter.  I 
will  go  and  inhale  the  IMay  air  here,  in  which, 
through  the  winter's  stern  fortress,  the  spring  is 
forcing  its  way  with  a  sort  of  moist  and  keen 
warmth.    Farewell.  A.  S. 

132 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 


VII 

From  Mary  a  Alexdndrovna  to  Aleooyei 
Petrovitch 

Village  of  ....  no,  May  20,  1840. 

I  have  received  your  letter,  Alexyei  Petrovitch, 
and  do  you  know  what  feehng  it  aroused  in  me? 

—  Indignation  ....  yes,  indignation 

and  I  will  immediately  explain  to  you  why  it 
aroused  precisely  that  feeling  in  me.  One  thing 
is  a  pity:  I  am  not  a  mistress  of  the  pen— I  rarely 
write.  I  do  not  know  how  to  express  my 
thoughts  accurately  and  in  a  few  words ;  but  you 
will,  I  hope,  come  to  my  aid.  You  yourself  will 
try  to  understand  me:  if  only  for  the  sake  of 
knowing  why  I  am  angry  with  you. 

Tell  me — you  are  a  clever  man — have  you  ever 
asked  5^ourself  what  sort  of  a  creature  a  Russian 
woman  is?  What  is  her  fate,  her  position  in 
the  world— in  short,  what  her  life  is  like?  I  do 
not  know  whether  you  have  ever  had  time  to  put 
that  question  to  yourself;  I  cannot  imagine  how 
you  would  answer  it.  ...  I  might,  in  conversa- 
tion, be  able  to  communicate  to  you  my  ideas  on 
that  subject,  but  I  shall  hardly  manage  it  on 
paper.  However,  it  makes  no  difference.  This 
is  the  point:  you  surely  will  agree  with  me  that 
we  women— at  all  events,  those  of  us  who  are  not 

133 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

satisfied  with  the  ordinary  cares  of  domestic  life 
—receive  our  final  education,  all  the  same,  from 
you— from  the  men:  you  have  a  great  and  pow- 
erful influence  on  us.  Look,  now,  at  what  you 
do  with  us.  I  shall  speak  of  the  young  girls,  es- 
pecially of  those  who,  like  myself,  dwell  in  the 
dull  places,  and  there  are  many  such  in  Russia. 
Moreover,  I  do  not  know  others,  and  cannot 
judge  with  regard  to  them.  Figure  to  yourself 
such  a  young  girl.  Here,  now,  her  education  is 
finished ;  she  is  beginning  to  live,  to  amuse  herself. 
But  amusement  alone  is  not  enough  for  her.  She 
demands  a  great  deal  from  life ;  she  reads,  dreams 
.  ...  of  love.— "  Always  of  love  alone!"  you 
will  say.  .  .  .  Let  us  assume  that  that  word 
means  a  great  deal  to  her.  I  will  say  again  that 
I  am  not  talking  of  the  sort  of  girl  who  finds  it 
burdensome  and  tiresome  to  think.  .  .  .  She 
looks  about  her,  waits  for  the  coming  of  him  for 

whom  her  soul  pines At  last  he  makes  his 

appearance:  she  is  carried  away;  she  is  like  soft 
wax  in  his  hands.  Everything— happiness,  and 
love,  and  thought— everything  has  invaded  her 
together  with  him,  all  at  once ;  all  her  tremors  are 
soothed,  all  her  doubts  are  solved  by  him;  truth 
itself  seems  to  speak  by  his  mouth;  she  worships 
Iiim,  she  is  ashamed  of  her  happiness,  she  learns, 
she  loves.  Great  is  his  power  over  her  at  this 
period !  ....  If  he  were  a  hero,  he  would  kindle 
her  to  flame,  he  would  teach  her  to  sacrifice  her- 

134 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

self,  and  all  sacrifices  would  be  easy  to  her !  But 
there  are  no  heroes  in  our  day.  .  .  .  Neverthe- 
less, he  guides  her  whithersoever  he  will;  she  de- 
votes herself  to  that  which  interests  him,  his  every 
word  sinks  into  her  soul:  at  that  time,  she  does 
not  know,  as  yet,  how  insignificant  and  empty 
and  false  that  word  may  be,  how  little  it  costs 
him  who  utters  it,  and  how  little  faith  it  merits! 
These  first  moments  of  bliss  and  hope  are  fol- 
lowed, generally — according  to  circumstances — 
(circumstances  are  always  to  blame) — are  fol- 
lowed by  parting.  It  is  said  that  there  have  been 
cases  where  two  kindred  souls,  on  recognising 
each  other,  have  immediately  united  indissolubly ; 
I  have  heard,  also,  that  they  are  not  always  com- 
fortable as  a  result.  .  .  .  But  I  will  not  speak 
of  that  which  I  have  not  myself  beheld — but  that 
the  very  pettiest  sort  of  calculation,  the  most 
woful  prudence,  may  dwell  in  a  young  heart  side 
by  side  with  the  most  passionate  rapture, — that 
is  a  fact  which,  unhappily,  I  know  by  my  own  ex- 
perience. So,  then,  parting  comes.  .  .  .  Happy 
is  that  young  girl  who  instantl}^  recognises  that 
the  end  of  all  has  come,  who  does  not  comfort 
herself  with  expectation!  But  you  brave,  just 
men,  in  the  majority  of  cases,  have  neither  the 
courage  nor  the  desire  to  tell  us  the  truth  .... 
you  find  it  more  easy  to  deceive  us.  ...  I  am 
ready  to  believe,  however,  that  you  deceive  your- 
selves along  with  us.  .  .  .  Parting!     It  is  both 

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A  CORRESPONDENCE 

difficult  and  easy  to  endure  parting.  If  only 
faith  in  him  whom  one  loves  were  intact  and  unas- 
sailed,  the  soul  would  conquer  the  pain  of  part- 
ing  I  will  say  more :  only  when  she  is  left 

alone  does  she  learn  the  sweetness  of  solitude,  not 
sterile  but  filled  with  memories  and  thoughts. 
Only  then  will  she  learn  to  know  herself — will  she 

come  to  herself,  will  she  grow  strong In  the 

letters  of  the  distant  friend  she  will  find  a  support 
for  herself;  in  her  own  she  will,  perhaps,  for  the 
first  time,  express  her  mind  fully.  .  .  .  But  as  two 
persons  who  have  started  from  the  source  of  a 
river  along  its  different  banks  can,  at  first,  clasp 
hands,  then  hold  communication  only  with  the 
voice,  but  ultimately  lose  sight  of  each  other:  so 
also  two  beings  are  ultimately  disjoined  by  sepa- 
ration. "What  of  that?"  you  will  say:  "evidently 
they  were  not  fated  to  go  together.  .  .  ."  But 
here  comes  in  the  difference  between  a  man  and 
a  woman.  It  signifies  nothing  to  a  man  to  begin 
a  new  life,  to  shake  far  from  him  the  past;  a 
woman  cannot  do  that.  No,  she  cannot  cast  aside 
her  past,  she  cannot  tear  herself  away  from  her 
roots — no,  a  thousand  times  no!  And  so,  a  piti- 
ful and  ridiculous  spectacle  presents  itself.  .  .  . 
Gradually  losing  hope  and  faith  in  herself, — you 
can  form  no  idea  of  how  painful  that  is, — she 
will  pine  away  and  fade  alone,  obstinately  cling- 
ing to  her  memories,  and  turning  away  from 

everything  which  life  around  her  offers 

And  he?  ...  .  Seek  him!    Where  is  he?    And 

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A  CORRESPONDENCE 

is  it  worth  while  for  him  to  pause?  What  time 
has  he  for  looking  back?  All  this  is  a  thing  of 
the  past  for  him,  you  see. 

Or  here  is  another  thing  which  happens:  it 
sometimes  happens  that  he  will  suddenly  conceive 
a  desire  to  meet  the  former  object  of  his  affec- 
tions, he  will  even  deliberately  go  to  her.  .  .  .  But, 
my  God !  from  what  a  motive  of  petty  vain-glory 
he  does  it!  In  his  polite  compassion,  in  his  coun- 
sels which  are  intended  to  be  friendly,  in  his 
condescending  explanations  of  the  past,  there  is 
audible  such  a  consciousness  of  his  own  superior- 
ity! It  is  so  agreeable  and  cheerful  a  thing  for 
him  to  let  himself  feel  every  minute  how  sensible 
and  kind  he  is!  And  how  little  he  understands 
what  he  is  doing !  How  well  he  manages  not  even 
to  guess  at  what  is  going  on  in  the  woman's  heart, 
and  how  insultingly  he  pities  her,  if  he  does  guess 
it!  .  .  . 

Tell  me,  please,  whence  are  we  to  get  the 
strength  to  endure  all  this  ?  Remember  this,  too : 
in  the  majority  of  cases,  a  girl  who,  to  her  mis- 
fortune, has  an  idea  beginning  to  stir  in  her  head, 
when  she  begins  to  love,  and  falls  under  the  influ- 
ence of  a  man,  involuntarily  separates  herself 
from  her  family,  from  her  acquaintances.  Even 
previously  she  has  not  been  satisfied  with  their 
life,  yet  she  has  walked  on  by  their  side,  preserv- 
ing in  her  soul  all  her  intimate  secrets. .  .  .  But  the 
breach  speedily  makes  itself  visible.  .  .  .  They 
cease  to  understand  her,  they  are  ready  to  suspect 

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A  CORRESPONDENCE 

every  movement  of  hers.  ...  At  first  she  pays 
no  heed  to  this,  but  afterward,  afterward  .... 
when  she  is  left  alone,  when  that  toward  which  she 
has  been  striving  and  for  which  she  has  sacrificed 
everything  escapes  her  grasp,  when  she  has  not 
attained  to  heaven,  but  when  every  near  thing, 
every  possible  thing,  has  retreated  far  from  her 
—what  shall  uphold  her?  Sneers,  hints,  the  vul- 
gar triumph  of  coarse  common  sense  she  can 
still  bear,  after  a  fashion  ....  but  what  is  she 
to  do,  to  what  is  she  to  have  recourse,  when  the 
inward  voice  begins  to  whisper  to  her  that  all 
those  people  were  right,  and  that  she  has  been 
mistaken;  that  life,  of  whatever  sort  it  may  be, 
is  better  than  dreams,  as  health  is  better  than  dis- 
ease ....  when  her  favourite  occupations,  her 
favourite  books,  disgust  her,  the  books  from 
which  one  cannot  extract  happiness,— what,  say 
you,— what  shall  uphold  her?  How  is  she  to  help 
succumbing  in  such  a  struggle?  How  is  she  to 
live  and  to  go  on  living  in  such  a  wilderness? 
Confess  herself  vanquished,  and  extend  her  hand 
like  a  beggar  to  indifferent  people?  Will  not 
they  give  her  at  least  some  of  that  happiness  with 
which  the  proud  heart  once  imagined  that  it  could 
dispense— all  that  is  nothing  as  yet!  But  to  feel 
one's  self  ridiculous  at  the  very  moment  when  one 
is  shedding  bitter,  bitter  tears  ....  akh!  God 
forbid  that  you  should  go  through  that  experi- 
ence! .... 

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A  CORRESPONDENCE 

My  hands  are  trembling,  and  I  am  in  a  fever 
all  over.  .  .  .  My  face  is  burning  hot.  It  is  time 
for  me  to  stop.  ...  I  shall  send  off  this  letter  as 
speedily  as  possible,  while  I  am  not  ashamed  of 
my  weakness.  But,  for  God's  sake,  not  a  word  in 
your  reply — do  you  hear  me? — not  a  word  of 
pity,  or  I  will  never  write  to  you  again.  Under- 
stand me :  I  should  not  like  to  have  you  take  this 
letter  as  the  outpouring  of  a  misunderstood  soul 
which  is  making  complaint.  .  .  Akh!  it  is  all  a 
matter  of  indiiference  to  me !    Farewell. 

M. 


VIII 

From  Alexyei  Petrovitch  to  Mary  a 
Alexdndrovna 

St.  Petersburg,  May  28,  1840. 
Marya  Alexandrovna,  you  are  a  fine  creature 
....  indeed  you  are  . . .  your  letter  has  disclosed  to 
me  the  truth  at  last!  O  Lord  my  God!  what  tor- 
ture! A  man  is  constantly  thinking  that  now  he 
has  attained  simplicity,  no  longer  shows  off,  puts 
on  airs,  or  lies  ....  but  when  you  come  to  look 
at  him  more  attentively,  he  has  become  almost 
worse  than  he  was  before.  And  this  must  be 
noted:  the  man  himself,  alone  that  is  to  say,  will 
never  attain  to  that  consciousness,  bestir  himself 
as  he  may!  his  eye  will  not  discern  his  own  de- 

139 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

fects,  just  as  the  blunted  eye  of  the  printer  will 
not  detect  errors:  another,  a  fresher  eye  is  re- 
quired. I  thank  you,  Marya  Alexandrovna.  .  .  . 
You  see,  I  am  speaking  to  you  of  myself;  I  dare 
not  speak  of  you.  .  .  .  Akh,  how  ridiculous  my 
last  letter  seems  to  me  now,— so  eloquent  and  sen- 
timental !  Go  on,  I  beg  of  you,  with  your  confes- 
sion; I  have  a  premonition  that  you  will  be  re- 
lieved thereby,  and  it  will  be  of  great  benefit  to 
me.  Not  without  cause  does  the  proverb  say:  "A 
woman's  wit  is  better  than  many  thoughts  " ;  and 
a  woman's  heart  is  far  more  so— God  is  my  wit- 
ness that  it  is  so !  If  women  only  knew  how  much 
better,  and  more  magnanimous,  and  clever — pre- 
cisely that — clever  they  are  than  the  men,  they 
would  grow  puffed  up  with  pride,  and  get 
spoiled :  but,  fortunately,  they  do  not  know  that ; 
they  do  not  know  it  because  their  thoughts  have 
not  become  accustomed  to  returning  incessantly 
to  themselves,  as  have  the  thoughts  of  us  men. 
They  think  little  about  themselves — that  is  their 
weakness  and  their  strength;  therein  lies  the 
whole  secret— I  will  not  say  of  our  superiority, 
but  of  our  power.  They  squander  their  souls,  as 
a  lavish  heir  squanders  his  father's  gold,  but  we 
collect  interest  from  every  look.  .  .  .  How  can 
they  enter  into  rivalry  with  us?  .  .  .  All  this  is 
not  compliments,  but  the  simple  truth,  demon- 
strated by  experience.  Again  I  entreat  you, 
]\Iarya  Alexandrovna,  to  continue  writing  to  me. 

140 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

...  If  you  only  knew  all  that  comes  into  my 
mind !  .  .  But  now  I  do  not  want  to  talk,  I  want 
to  listen  to  you.  .  .  .  My  speech  will  come  later 
on.    Write,  write. 

Yours  truly, 
A.  S. 

IX 

From  Mary  a  Alexdndrovna  to  Alexyei 
Petrovitch 

Village  of  ...  .  no,  June  12,  1840. 

No  sooner  had  I  despatched  my  last  letter  to 
you,  Alexyei  Petrovitch,  than  I  repented  of  it; 
but  there  was  no  help  for  it.  One  thing  somewhat 
soothed  me :  I  am  convinced  that  you  have  under- 
stood under  the  influence  of  what  long-sup- 
pressed feelings  it  was  written,  and  have  forgiven 
me.  I  did  not  even  read  over  at  the  time  what  I 
had  written  to  you;  I  remember  that  my  heart 
was  beating  so  violently  that  my  pen  trembled  in 
my  hand.  However,  although  I  probably  should 
have  expressed  myself  differently  if  I  had  given 
myself  time  to  think  it  over,  still  I  have  no  inten- 
tion of  disclaiming  either  my  words  or  the  feel- 
ings which  I  have  imparted  to  you  to  the  best  of 
my  ability.  To-day  I  am  much  more  cool-headed, 
and  have  far  better  control  over  myself.  .  .  . 

I  remember  that  I  spoke  toward  the  end  of  my 
141 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

letter  about  the  painful  situation  of  the  young 
girl  who  recognises  the  fact  that  she  is  isolated 
even  among  her  own  people.  ...  I  will  not  en- 
large further  on  that  point,  but  rather  will  I  com- 
municate to  you  a  few  details;  it  seems  to  me  that 
I  shall  bore  you  less  in  that  way. 

In  the  first  place,  you  must  know  that  through- 
out the  whole  country-side  I  am  not  called  any- 
thing but  "the  female  philosopher";  the  ladies, 
in  particular,  allude  to  me  by  that  name.  Some 
assert  that  I  sleep  with  a  Latin  book  in  my 
hands  and  in  spectacles;  others,  that  I  know 
how  to  extract  some  cubic  roots  or  other:  not 
one  of  them  cherishes  any  doubt  that  I  wear 
masculine  attire  on  the  sly,  and  that  instead  of 
"good  morning,"  I  say  abi*uptly:  "Georges 
Sand!" — and  indignation  against  "the  female 
philosopher "  is  on  the  increase.  We  have  a 
neighbour,  a  man  of  five-and-forty,  a  great  wit, 
....  at  least,  he  has  the  reputation  of  being  a 
great  wit,  ....  and  for  him  my  poor  person  is 
an  inexhaustible  subject  for  jeers.  He  has  re- 
lated, concerning  me,  that  as  soon  as  the  moon 
rises  in  the  sky,  I  cannot  take  my  eyes  from  it, 
and  he  shows  how  I  look ;  that  I  even  drink  coffee 
not  with  cream  but  with  the  moon,  that  is  to  say, 
I  set  my  cup  in  its  rays.  He  swears  that  I  use 
phrases  in  the  nature  of  the  following:  "  That 
is  easy  because  it  is  difficult;  although,  on  the 
other  hand,   it   is   difficult   because   it   is   easy." 

142 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

.  .  .  He  declares  that  I  am  always  seeking  some 
word  or  other,  always  yearning  "  thither,"  and 
he  inquires,  with  comic  indignation:  "Whither 
is  thither?  Whither?  "  He  has  also  set  in  cir- 
culation about  me  a  rumour  to  the  effect  that 
I  ride  by  night  on  horseback  back  and  forth 
through  the  ford  of  the  river,  singing  the  while 
Schubert's  "  Serenade,"  or  simply  moaning: 
"Beethoven,  Beethoven!"  as  much  as  to  say — 
"  She  's  such  a  fiery  old  woman!  "  and  so  forth, 
and  so  forth.  Of  course,  all  this  immediately 
reaches  my  ears.  Perhaps  this  may  surprise  you ; 
but  do  not  forget  that  four  years  have  elapsed 
since  you  have  sojourned  in  these  parts.  Re- 
member how  every  one  gazed  askance  at  us 
then.  .  .  .  Now  their  turn  has  come.  And  all 
this  is  nothing.  I  sometimes  happen  to  hear 
words  which  pierce  my  heart  much  more  pain- 
fully. I  will  not  mention  the  fact  that  my  poor, 
good  mother  cannot  possibly  pardon  me  for  your 
cousin's  indifference ;  but  all  my  life  runs  through 
the  fire,  as  my  old  nurse  expresses  it.  "  Of 
course," — I  hear  constantly, — "how  are  we  to 
keep  up  with  thee?  We  are  plain  folks,  we  are 
guided  only  by  common  sense ;  but,  after  all,  when 
one  comes  to  think  of  it,  to  what  have  all  these 
philosophisings  and  books  and  acquaintances 
with  learned  people  brought  thee?  "  Perhaps 
you  remember  my  sister — not  the  one  to  whom 
you  were  formerly  not  indifferent,  but  the  other, 

143 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

the  elder,  who  is  married.  Her  husband,  you  will 
remember,  is  a  decidedly -ridiculous  man;  you 
often  used  to  make  fun  of  him  in  those  days.  Yet 
she  is  happy :  the  mother  of  a  family,  she  loves  her 
husband,  and  her  husband  adores  her.  .  .  .  *'  I 
am  like  all  the  rest," — she  says  to  me  sometimes; 
— "but  how  about  thee?"  And  she  is  right:  I 
envy  her.  .  .  . 

And  nevertheless  I  feel  that  I  should  not  like 
to  change  places  with  her.  Let  them  call  me  "  a 
female  philosopher,"  "  an  eccentric,"  whatever 
they  choose — I  shall  remain  faithful  to  the  end 
.  ...  to  what? — to  an  ideal,  pray?  Yes,  to  an 
ideal.  Yes,  I  shall  remain  faithful  to  the  end  to 
that  which  first  made  my  heart  beat,— to  that 
which  I  have  acknowledged  and  do  acknowledge 
to  be  the  true,  the  good.  If  only  my  strength 
does  not  fail  me,  if  only  my  idol  does  not  prove  a 
soulless  block.  .  .  . 

If  you  really  do  feel  friendship  for  me,  if  you 
really  have  not  forgotten  me,  you  must  help  me ; 
you  must  disperse  my  doubts,  strengthen  my 
beliefs.  .  .  . 

But  what  aid  can  you  render  me?  "  All  this  is 
nonsense,  like  the  useless  running  of  a  squirrel  on 
a  wheel,"  said  my  uncle  to  me  yesterday— I  think 
you  do  not  know  him — a  retired  naval  officer,  and 
a  far  from  stupid  man.  "A  husband,  children,  a 
pot  of  buckwheat  groats:  to  tend  husband  and 
children,  and  look  after  the  pot  of  groats — that 's 

144 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

what  a  woman  needs."  .  .  .  Tell  me,  he  is  right, 
is  he  not? 

If  he  really  is  right,  I  can  still  repair  the  past, 
I  can  still  get  into  the  common  rut.  What  else  is 
there  for  me  to  wait  for?  What  is  there  to  hope 
for?  In  one  of  your  letters,  you  spoke  of  the 
wings  of  youth.  How  often,  how  long  they  re- 
main fettered!  And  then  comes  a  time,  when 
they  fall  off;  and  it  is  no  longer  possible  to  raise 
one's  self  above  the  earth,  to  soar  heavenward. 
Write  to  me. 

Yours,  M. 


X 

From  Alexyei  Petrovitch  to  Mary  a 
Aleocdndrovna 

St.  Petersburg,  June  16,  1840. 

I  hasten  to  answer  your  letter,  my  dear  Marya 
Alexandrovna.  I  will  confess  to  you  that  if  it 
were  not  for  ....  I  will  not  say  business— I 
have  none — if  it  were  not  for  my  being  so  stu- 
pidly habituated  to  this  place,  I  would  go  again 
to  you  and  would  talk  my  fill,  but  on  paper  all 
this  comes  out  so  coldly,  in  such  a  dead  man- 
ner. .  .  . 

I  repeat  to  you,  Marya  Alexandrovna :  women 
are  better  than  men,  and  you  ought  to  demon- 
strate that  in  deed.    Let  us  men  fling  aside  our 

145 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

convictions,  like  a  worn-out  garment,  or  barter 
them  for  a  morsel  of  bread,  or,  in  conclusion,  let 
them  fall  into  the  sleep  which  knows  no  waking, 
and  place  over  them,  as  over  one  formerly  be- 
loved, a  tombstone,  to  which  one  goes  only  now 
and  then  to  pray — let  us  men  do  all  that;  but  do 
not  you  women  be  false  to  yourselves,  do  not  be- 
tray your  ideal.  .  .  .  That  word  has  become  ri- 
diculous. .  .  .  To  be  afraid  of  the  ridiculous  is 
not  to  love  the  truth.  It  does  happen,  it  is  true, 
that  a  stupid  laugh  will  make  the  stupid  man, 
even  good  people,  renounce  a  great  deal  .... 
take  for  example  the  defence  of  an  absent  friend. 
...  I  am  guilty  in  that  respect  myself.  But,  I 
repeat  it,  you  women  are  better  than  we  are.  .  .  . 
In  trifles  you  are  inclined  to  yield  to  us ;  but  you 
understand  better  than  we  do  how  to  look  the 
devil  straight  in  the  eye.  I  shall  give  you  neither 
aid  nor  advice— how  can  I?  and  you  do  not  need 
it;  but  I  do  stretch  forth  my  hand  to  you,  and  I 
do  say  to  you:  "  Have  patience;  fight  until  the 
end;  and  know  that,  as  a  feeling,  the  conscious- 
ness of  a  battle  honourably  waged  almost  tran- 
scends the  triumph  of  victory."  ....  The  vic- 
tory does  not  depend  upon  us. 

Of  course,  from  a  certain  point  of  view,  your 
uncle  is  right:  family  life  is  everything  for  a  wo- 
man ;  there  is  no  other  life  for  her. 

But  what  does  that  prove?  Only  the  Jesuits 
assert  that  every  means  is  good,  if  only  one  at- 

146 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

tains  his  end.  It  is  not  true!  not  true!  It  is  an 
indignity  to  enter  a  clean  temple  with  feet  soiled 
with  the  mire  of  the  road.  At  the  end  of  your 
letter  there  is  a  phrase  which  I  do  not  like:  you 
want  to  get  into  the  common  rut.  Look  out— do 
not  make  a  misstep!  Do  not  forget,  moreover, 
that  it  is  impossible  to  efface  the  past ;  and  strive 
as  you  may,  force  yourself  as  you  will,  you  cannot 
make  yourself  your  sister.  You  have  ascended 
above  her.  But  your  soul  is  broken,  hers  is  intact. 
You  can  lower  yourself,  bend  down  to  her,  but 
nature  will  not  resign  her  rights,  and  the  broken 
place  will  not  grow  together  again.  .  .  . 

You  are  afraid— let  us  speak  without  circum- 
locution— you  are  afraid  of  remaining  an  old 
maid.  I  know  that  you  are  already  twenty-six 
years  old.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  position  of 
old  maids  is  not  enviable:  every  one  so  gladly 
laughs  at  them ;  every  one  notes  their  oddities  and 
their  weaknesses  with  such  unmagnanimous  de- 
light. But  if  you  scan  more  closely  any  elderly 
bachelor, — he  deserves  to  have  the  finger  of  scorn 
pointed  at  him  also, — you  will  find  in  him  cause  to 
laugh  your  fill.  What  is  to  be  done  ?  Happiness 
is  not  to  be  captured  by  battle.  But  we  must  not 
forget  that  not  happiness  but  human  dignity  is 
the  chief  goal  of  life. 

You  describe  your  position  with  great  humour. 
I  well  understand  all  its  bitterness ;  j^our  position 
may,  I  am  sure,  be  called  tragic.    But  you  must 

147 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

know  that  you  are  not  the  only  one  who  finds 
herself  in  it :  there  is  hardly  any  man  of  the  pres- 
ent day  who  does  not  find  himself  in  it  also.  You 
will  say  that  that  does  not  make  it  any  the  easier 
for  you;  but  what  I  think  is  that  to  suffer  in 
company  with  thousands  is  quite  a  different  thing 
from  suffering  alone.  It  is  not  a  question  of  ego- 
tism here,  but  of  a  feeling  of  universal  necessity. 
"  All  this  is  very  fine,  let  us  assume,"  you  will 
say,  .  .  .  "but,  in  point  of  fact,  it  is  not  appli- 
cable to  the  case."  Why  is  it  not  applicable?  Up 
to  the  present  day  I  think,  and  I  hope  that  I  shall 
never  cease  to  think,  that  in  God's  world  every- 
thing honest,  good,  and  true  is  applicable,  and 
sooner  or  later  will  be  fulfilled ;  and  not  only  will 
be  fulfilled,  but  is  already  being  fulfilled,  if  each 
one  will  only  hold  himself  firmly  in  his  place,  will 
not  lose  patience,  will  not  desire  the  impossible, 
but  will  act,  so  far  as  his  strength  permits.  But 
I  think  I  have  given  myself  up  too  much  to  ab- 
stractions. I  will  defer  the  continuation  of  my 
arguments  until  another  letter ;  but  I  do  not  wish 
to  lay  down  my  pen  without  having  pressed  your 
hand  warmly,  very  warmly,  and  wished  you,  with 
all  my  soul,  everything  that  is  good  on  earth. 

Yours,  A.  S. 

P.S.  By  the  way,  you  say  that  you  have  no- 
thing to  look  forward  to,  nothing  to  hope  for; 
how  do  you  know  that,  allow  me  to  ask? 

148 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 


XI 

From  Mary  a  Alexdndrovna  to  Aleooyei 
Petrovitch 

Village  of  ...  .  no,  June  30,  1840. 

How  grateful  I  am  to  you  for  your  letter, 
Alexyei  Petrovitch !  How  much  good  it  has  done 
me!  I  see  that  you  really  are  a  good  and  trust- 
worthy man,  and  therefore  I  shall  not  dissimu- 
late before  you.  I  trust  you.  I  know  that  you 
will  not  make  a  bad  use  of  my  frankness  and  that 
you  will  give  me  friendly  advice.  That  is  the 
point. 

You  noticed  at  the  end  of  my  letter  a  phrase 
which  did  not  entirely  please  you.  This  is  what 
it  referred  to.  There  is  a  neighbour  here  .... 
he  was  not  here  in  your  day,  and  you  have  not 
seen  him.  He  ...  I  might  marry  him,  if  I 
wished;  he  is  a  man  who  is  still  young,  cultured, 
wealthy.  There  are  no  obstacles  on  the  side  of 
my  relatives;  on  the  contrary,  they— I  know  this 
for  certain — desire  this  marriage;  he  is  a  fine 
man,  and  I  think  he  loves  me.  .  .  .  But  he  is  so 
languid  and  petty,  all  his  desires  are  so  narrow, 
that  I  cannot  help  recognising  my  superioritj'' 
over  him ;  he  feels  this,  and  seems  to  take  delight 
in  it,  and  precisely  that  repels  me  from  him;  I 
cannot  respect  him,  although  he  has  an  excellent 

149 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

heart.  What  am  I  to  do,  tell  me?  Think  for  me 
and  write  me  your  opinion  sincerely. 

But  how  grateful  I  am  to  you  for  your  letter! 
.  .  .  Do  you  know,  I  have  sometimes  been  visited 
by  such  bitter  thoughts.  .  .  .  Do  you  know,  I 
have  gone  so  far  as  almost  to  feel  ashamed  of 
every— I  will  not  say  exalted— but  of  every 
trustful  feeling.  I  have  shut  my  book  in  vexation 
when  it  spoke  of  hope  and  happiness;  I  have 
turned  away  from  the  cloudless  sky,  from  the 
fresh  verdure  of  the  trees,  from  everything  that 
smiled  and  was  glad.  What  a  painful  condition 
this  was!  I  say  "was"  ...  as  though  it  had 
passed ! 

I  do  not  know  whether  it  has  passed;  I  know 
that  if  it  does  not  return  I  shall  be  indebted  to 
you  for  it.  You  see,  Alexyei  Petrovitch,  how 
much  good  you  have  done,  perhaps  without  your- 
self suspecting  it!  Now,  in  the  very  heart  of 
summer,  the  days  are  magnificent,  the  sky  is  blue, 
bright.  ...  It  cannot  be  more  beautiful  in  Italy. 
But  you  are  sitting  in  a  stifling  and  dusty  town, 
you  are  walking  on  the  scorching  pavements. 
What  possesses  you  to  do  it?  You  ought,  at 
least,  to  remove  to  a  villa  somewhere.  They  say 
that  beyond  PeterhofF,  on  the  seashore,  there  are 
charming  places. 

I  should  like  to  write  more  to  you,  but  it  is  im- 
possible: such  a  sweet  perfume  has  been  wafted 
up  to  me  from  the  garden  that  I  cannot  remain 

150 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

in  the  house.  I  shall  put  on  my  hat  and  go  for  a 
stroll.  .  .  .  Farewell  until  another  time,  kind 
Alexyei  Petrovitch. 

Yours  truly, 

M.B. 

P.S.  I  have  forgotten  to  tell  you  ....  just 
imagine :  that  wit,  of  whom  I  recently  wrote  you, 
— just  imagine:  he  has  made  me  a  declaration  of 
love,  and  in  the  most  fiery  terms!  At  first  I 
thought  that  he  was  making  fun  of  me;  but  he 
wound  up  with  a  formal  proposal.  What  do  you 
think  of  that,  after  all  his  calumnies?  But  he  is 
positively  too  old.  Last  night,  to  pique  him,  I 
sat  down  at  the  piano  in  front  of  the  open  window 
in  the  moonlight,  and  played  Beethoven.  It  was 
so  delightful  to  me  to  feel  its  cold  light  on  my 
face,  so  consolatory  to  send  forth  upon  the  per- 
fumed night  air  the  noble  sounds  of  music, 
athwart  which,  at  times,  the  song  of  the  nightin- 
gale was  audible!  It  is  a  long  time  since  I  have 
been  so  happy,  but  do  you  write  to  me  concern- 
ing the  thing  I  asked  you  about  in  the  beginning 
of  my  letter:  it  is  very  important. 


151 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 


XII 

From  Alexyei  Petrovitch  to  Mary  a 
Alexdndrovna 

St.  Petersburg,  July  8,  1840. 

My  dear  Mary  a  Alexandre  vn  a,  here  is  my 
opinion  in  two  words :  throw  both  the  old  bachelor 
and  the  young  suitor  overboard  1  There  's  no  use 
in  deliberating  over  this.  Neither  of  them  is 
worthy  of  you— that  is  as  clear  as  that  twice  two 
are  four.  The  young  neighbour  may  be  a  good 
man,  but  I  throw  him  over  I  I  am  convinced  that 
you  and  he  have  nothing  in  common,  and  you  can 
imagine  how  cheerful  it  would  be  to  live  together! 
And  why  be  in  a  hurry?  Is  it  possible  that  a 
woman  like  you— I  have  no  intention  of  paying 
compliments,  and  therefore  will  not  enlarge  fur- 
ther—that such  a  woman  as  you  should  not 
meet  some  one  who  will  know  how  to  appre- 
ciate her?  No,  Marya  Alexandre vna ;  heed  me  if 
you  really  think  that  my  advice  is  beneficial. 

But  confess  that  you  found  it  pleasant  to  be- 
hold that  old  calumniator  at  your  feet!  ...  If 
I  had  been  in  your  place,  I  would  have  made  him 
sing  Beethoven's  "  Adelaida "  the  whole  night 
through,  staring  at  the  moon  the  while. 

But  God  be  with  them,  with  your  admirers!  It 
is  not  of  them  that  I  wish  to  talk  with  you  to-day. 

152 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

I  am  in  a  sort  of  half-irritated,  half -agitated  con- 
dition to-day,  as  the  result  of  a  letter  which  I  re- 
ceived yesterday.  I  send  you  a  copy  of  it.  This 
letter  was  written  by  one  of  my  very  old  friends 
and  comrades  in  the  service,  a  kind-hearted  but 
rather  narrow-minded  man.  A  couple  of  years 
ago  he  went  abroad,  and  up  to  the  present  he  has 
not  written  to  me  a  single  time.  Here  is  his  let- 
ter.   N.B.    He  is  very  far  from  bad-looking. 

"  Cher  Alexis: 

*'  I  am  in  Naples.  I  am  sitting  in  my  chamber 
on  the  Chiaja  at  the  window.  The  weather  is 
wonderful.  At  first  I  gazed  a  long  time  at  the 
sea,  then  impatience  seized  upon  me,  and  the  bril- 
liant idea  of  writing  a  letter  to  thee  occurred  to 
me.  I  have  always  felt  an  affection  for  thee,  my 
dear  friend, — Heaven  is  my  witness  that  I  have! 
And  now  I  should  like  to  pour  myself  into  thy 
bosom  ...  I  believe  that  is  the  way  it  is  ex- 
pressed in  our  elevated  language.  And  the  rea- 
son I  have  been  seized  with  impatience  is  that  I 
am  expecting  a  woman;  together  we  shall  go  to 
Baiag  to  eat  oysters  and  oranges,  to  watch  the 
dark-brown  shepherds  in  red  nightcaps  dance 
the  tarantella,  to  broil  ourselves  in  the  sunshine, 
to  watch  the  lizards — in  a  word,  to  enjoy  life  to 
the  full.  My  dear  friend,  I  am  so  happy  that  I 
am  unable  to  express  it  to  you.  If  I  possessed  thy 
power  with  the  pen,  oh,  what  a  picture  I  would 

153 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

draw  before  thine  eyes!  But,  unfortunately,  as 
thou  knowest,  I  am  an  ilHterate  man.  The  wo- 
man for  whom  I  am  waiting,  and  who  has  already 
made  me  constantly  start  and  glance  at  the  door, 
loves  me — and  as  for  the  way  I  love  her,  it  seems 
to  me  that  even  thou  with  thy  eloquent  pen  couldst 
not  describe  that. 

"  I  must  tell  thee  that  I  have  known  her  for 
the  last  three  months,  and  ever  since  the  very 
first  day  of  our  acquaintance,  my  love  has  gone 
on  crescendo,  in  the  shape  of  a  chromatic  scale, 
ever  higher  and  higher,  and  at  the  present  mo- 
ment it  has  already  attained  to  the  seventh 
heaven.  I  am  jesting,  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
my  attachment  to  that  woman  is  something  ex- 
traordinary, supernatural.  Just  imagine:  I 
hardly  ever  talk  with  her,  but  I  stare  at  her  in- 
cessantly and  laugh.  I  sit  at  her  feet,  I  feel  that 
I  am  frightfully  stupid  and  happy,  simply  un- 
lawfully happy.  It  sometimes  happens  that  she 
lays  her  hand  on  my  head.  .  .  .  And  then,  I 
must  tell  thee,  .  .  .  but  thou  canst  not  under- 
stand it ;  for  thou  art  a  philosopher,  and  have  been 
a  philosopher  all  thy  life.  Her  name  is  Nina, 
Ninetta— as  thou  wilt;  she  is  the  daughter  of  a 
wealthy  merchant  here.  Beautiful  as  all  thy  Ra- 
phaels ;  lively  as  powder,  blithe,  so  clever  that  it  is 
positively  amazing  that  she  should  have  fallen  in 
love  with  such  a  fool  as  myself;  she  sings  like  a 
bird,  and  her  eyes— 

154 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

"  Forgive  me,  pray,  for  this  involuntary  tirade. 
...  I  thought  the  door  creaked.  .  .  .  No,  the 
rogue  has  not  come  yet!  Thou  wilt  ask  me  how 
all  this  is  going  to  end,  and  what  I  mean  to  do 
with  myself,  and  whether  I  shall  remain  here 
long.  I  know  nothing,  and  wish  to  know  nothing, 
about  that,  my  dear  fellow.  What  is  to  be  will 
be.  .  .  .  For  if  one  is  to  pause  and  reason  con- 
stantly   

"  'Tis  she!  ....  She  is  running  up  the  stairs 
and  singing.  .  .  She  has  come.  .  .  Well,  good- 
by,  my  dear  fellow.  ...  I  'm  in  no  mood  for 
thee.  Pardon  me — it  is  she  who  has  spattered 
this  letter  all  over:  she  struck  the  paper  with  her 
damp  nosegay.  At  first  she  thought  I  was  writ- 
ing to  a  woman ;  but  as  soon  as  she  found  out  that 
it  was  to  a  man-friend,  she  bade  me  give  you  her 
compliments,  and  inquire  whether  there  are  any 
flowers  in  your  country,  and  whether  they  are 
fragrant.  Well,  good-by.  ...  If  you  could 
only  hear  how  she  laughs!  .  .  .  Silver  rings  just 
like  that:  and  what  goodness  in  every  sound!— 
One  fairly  wants  to  kiss  her  feet.  Let  us  go,  let 
us  go!  Be  not  angry  at  this  untidy  scrawl,  and 
envy  thy— 

M  .  .  ." 

The  letter  actually  was  bespattered,  and  ex- 
haled an  odour  of  orange-flowers  .  .  .  two  white 
petals  had  adhered  to  the  paper.    This  letter  has 

155 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

excited  me.  ...  I  have  called  to  mind  my  so- 
journ in  Naples.  .  .  .  The  weather  was  magnifi- 
cent then  also;  May  was  only  just  beginning;  I 
had  recently  completed  my  twenty-second  year; 
but  I  did  not  know  any  Ninetta.  I  roamed  about 
alone,  consumed  with  a  thirst  for  bliss,  which  was 
both  painful  and  sweet,— sweet  to  the  point  where 
it  itself  bore  a  sort  of  resemblance  to  bliss.  .  .  . 
What  a  thing  it  is  to  be  young !  .  .  .  I  remember 
I  once  went  out  for  a  row  on  the  bay  at  night. 
There  were  two  of  us:  the  boatman  and  I  .  .  .  . 
but  what  was  it  you  thought?  What  a  night  it 
was,  and  what  a  sky,  what  stars— how  they  trem- 
bled and  crumbled  in  the  waves!  With  what  a 
liquid  flame  did  the  water  flow  over  and  flash  up 
under  the  oars,  what  perfume  was  wafted  all 
over  the  sea— it  is  not  for  me  to  describe,  how- 
ever "  eloquent  "  my  pen  may  be.  A  French  ship 
of  the  line  lay  at  anchor  in  the  roadstead.  It 
glowed  obscurely  red  all  over  with  lights;  long 
streaks  of  red  light,  the  reflection  of  the  illumi- 
nated windows,  stretched  across  the  dark  sea. 
Merry  music  reached  me  in  occasional  bursts;  I 
recall,  in  particular,  the  trill  of  a  small  flute  amid 
the  dull  blaring  of  the  horns ;  it  seemed  to  flutter 
like  a  butterfly  around  my  boat.  I  ordered  the 
man  to  row  to  the  ship;  twice  did  we  make  the 
circuit  of  it.  Women's  forms  flitted  past  the  win- 
dows, borne  smartly  past  on  the  whirlwind  of  the 
waltz.  ...  I  ordered  the  boatman  to  put  off, 

156 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

far  away,  straight  out  into  the  darkness.  .  .  I 
remember  that  the  sounds  pursued  me  long  and 
importunately.  .  .  .  At  last  they  died  away.  I 
stood  up  in  the  boat  and  stretched  out  my  arms 
over  the  sea  in  the  dumb  pain  of  longing.  .  .  . 
Oh,  how  my  heart  ached  then!  How  oppressive 
was  my  loneliness!  With  what  joy  would  I  have 
given  myself  at  that  moment  wholly,  wholly  .... 
wholly,  if  only  there  had  been  any  one  to  whom 
to  give  myself!  With  what  a  bitter  feeling  in 
my  soul  did  I  fling  myself,  face  down,  in  the 
bottom  of  the  boat  and,  like  Repetiloff ,  request 
him  to  take  me  somewhere  or  other! 

But  my  friend  here  experienced  nothing  of 
that  sort.  And  why  should  he  ?  He  has  managed 
matters  much  more  cleverly  than  I  did.  He  is  liv- 
ing ....  while  I  .  .  .  .  not  without  cause  has 

he  called  me  a  philosopher 'T  is  strange ! 

You,  alsO;,  are  called  a  philosopher.  .  .  .  Why 
should  such  a  calamity  overtake  us?  ...  . 

I  am  not  living.  .  .  .  But  who  is  to  blame  for 
that?  Why  do  I  sit  here  in  Petersburg?  What 
am  I  doing  here?  Why  do  I  kill  day  after  day? 
Why  don't  I  go  to  the  country?  Are  not  our 
steppes  beautiful?  Or  cannot  one  breathe  freely 
in  them?  Or  is  it  stifling  in  them?  What  pos- 
sesses me  to  pursue  dreams,  when,  perchance, 
happiness  is  within  my  reach?  It  is  settled:  I  am 
going  away,  I  am  going  away  to-morrow,  if  pos- 
sible; I  am  going  home,  that  is,  to  you— it  is  all 

157 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

the  same:  for  we  live  only  twenty  versts  apart. 
What's  the  use,  after  all,  in  languishing  here? 
And  why  is  it  that  this  idea  did  not  occur  to  me 
earlier?  My  dear  Marya  Alexandrovna,  we  shall 
soon  meet.  But  it  is  remarkable  that  this  thought 
did  not  enter  my  head  until  this  moment!  I 
ought  to  have  gone  away  long,  long  ago.  Fare- 
well until  we  meet,  Marya  Alexandrovna. 

July  9th. 

I  have  deliberately  given  myself  twenty-four 
hours  to  think  it  over,  and  now  I  am  definitively 
convinced  that  there  is  no  reason  why  I  should 
remain  here.  The  dust  in  the  streets  is  so  biting 
that  it  makes  one's  eyes  ache.  To-day  I  shall  be- 
gin to  pack;  on  the  day  after  to-morrow,  prob- 
ably, I  shall  leave  here ;  and  ten  days  hence  I  shall 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you.  I  hope  you  will 
receive  me  as  of  old.  By  the  way — your  sister  is 
still  visiting  your  aunt,  is  she  not? 

Permit  me,  Marya  Alexandrovna,  to  press 
your  hand  warmly,  and  to  say  to  you  from  my 
soul :  farewell  until  a  speedy  meeting.  I  was  pre- 
paring to  leave  in  any  case,  but  this  letter  has  pre- 
cipitated my  intention.  Let  us  assume  that  this 
letter  proves  nothing ;  let  us  even  assume  that  Ni- 
netta  would  not  please  any  one  else — me,  for  ex- 
ample. Yet  I  am  going,  all  the  same ;  there  is  no 
doubt  about  that.     Farewell  for  the  present. 

Yours,  A.  S. 
158 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 


XIII 

From  Mary  a  Aleocdndrovna  to  Aleocyei 
Petrovitch 

Village  of  .  .  .  no,  July  16, 1840. 
You  are  coming  hither,  you  will  soon  be  with 
us,  will  you  not,  Alexyei  Petrovitch?  I  will  not 
conceal  from  you  that  this  news  both  delights 
and  agitates  me.  .  .  .  How  shall  we  meet?  Will 
that  spiritual  bond  be  preserved  which,  so  it  seems 
to  me,  has  already  begun  to  unite  us?  Will 
it  not  break  when  we  meet?  I  do  not  know;  I 
am  apprehensive,  for  some  reason  or  other.  I 
will  not  answer  your  last  letter,  although  I  might 
say  a  good  deal;  I  will  defer  all  this  until  we 
meet.  My  mother  is  greatly  delighted  at  your 
coming.  .  .  .  She  has  been  aware  that  I  was  cor- 
responding with  you.  The  weather  is  enchant- 
ing. We  will  walk  a  great  deal ;  I  will  show  you 
the  new  places  which  I  have  discovered  ....  one 
long,  narrow  valley  is  particularly  nice:  it  lies 
between  hillocks,  covered  with  forest.  ...  It 
seems  to  be  hiding  in  their  curves.  A  tiny  brook 
flows  along  it  and  can  barely  force  its  way 
through  the  grass  and  flowers.  .  .  .  You  shall 
see.    Come:  perhaps  you  will  not  find  it  tedious. 

M.  B. 
159 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

P.S.  You  will  not  see  my  sister,  I  think:  she 
is  still  visiting  my  aunt.  I  believe  (this  is  be- 
tween ourselves)  that  she  is  going  to  marry  a 
very  amiable  young  man— an  officer.  Why  did 
you  send  me  that  letter  from  Naples?  The  life 
here  perforce  seems  dim  and  pale  in  comparison 
with  that  luxury  and  that  brilliancy.  But  Made- 
moiselle Ninetta  is  wrong:  flowers  grow  and  are 
fragrant— even  with  us. 

XIV 

From  Mary  a  Aleocdndrovna  to  Alexyei 
Petrovitch 

Village  of  .  .  .'  no,  January,  1841. 
I  have  written  to  you  several  times,  Alexyei 
Petrovitch.  .  .  .  You  have  not  answered  me. 
Are  you  alive?  Or  perhaps  our  correspondence 
has  begun  to  bore  you;  perhaps  you  have  found 
for  yourself  a  more  agreeable  diversion  than  the 
letters  of  a  rustic  young  lady  can  aiford  you? 
Evidently  you  called  me  to  mind  for  the  lack  of 
something  to  do.  If  that  is  the  case,  I  wish  you 
happiness.  If  you  do  not  answer  me  this  time, 
I  shall  not  trouble  you  again;  there  will  be  no- 
thing left  for  me  to  do  but  to  regret  my  impru- 
dence, that  I  have  unnecessarily  permitted  my- 
self to  be  roused  up,  have  offered  my  hand  and 
emerged,  if  only  for  a  moment,  from  my  isolated 

160 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

nook.  I  ought  to  remain  in  it  forever,  lock 
myself  in— that  is  my  portion,  the  portion  of  all 
old  maids.  I  ought  to  accustom  myself  to  that 
thought.  There  is  no  necessity  for  coming  out 
into  God's  sunlight,  no  necessity  for  craving 
fresh  air,  when  the  lungs  will  not  bear  it.  By 
the  way,  we  are  now  blocked  up  with  dead  drifts 
of  snow.  I  shall  be  more  sensible  henceforth. 
.  .  .  People  do  not  die  of  boredom,  but  it  is  pos- 
sible to  perish  with  melancholy,  I  suppose.  If  I 
am  mistaken,  prove  it  to  me.  But  I  think  I  am 
not  mistaken.  In  any  case,  farewell.  I  wish  you 
happiness.  M.  B. 


From  Alexyei  Petrovitch  to  Mary  a 
Alexdndrovna 

Dresden,  September,  1842. 
I  write  to  you,  my  dear  Marya  Alexandrovna, 
and  I  write  only  because  I  do  not  wish  to  die  with- 
out having  taken  leave  of  you,  and  without  hav- 
ing recalled  myself  to  your  mind.  I  am  con- 
demned by  the  doctors  ....  and  I  myself  feel 
that  my  life  is  drawing  to  a  close.  On  my  table 
stands  a  rose;  before  it  fades  I  shall  be  no  more. 
But  that  comparison  is  not  quite  just.  The  rose 
is  far  more  interesting  than  I  am. 

161 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

As  you  see,  I  am  abroad.  I  have  been  in  Dres- 
den six  months.  I  received  your  last  letters— I 
am  ashamed  to  confess:  I  lost  several  of  them 
more  than  a  year  ago,  and  did  not  answer  you.  .  . 
I  will  tell  you  presently  why.  But,  evidently, 
you  have  always  been  dear  to  me:  with  the  ex- 
ception of  yourself,  there  is  no  one  of  whom  I 
wish  to  take  leave,  and  perhaps  I  have  no  one  to 
whom  I  could  bid  farewell. 

Soon  after  my  last  letter  to  you  (I  was  quite 
ready  to  set  out  for  your  parts,  and  was  making 
various  plans  in  advance),  there  happened  to  me 
an  episode  which  had,  I  may  say,  a  strong  influ- 
ence on  my  fate,— so  strong  that  here  I  am,  dy- 
ing, thanks  to  that  event.  To  wit:  I  set  out  for 
the  theatre,  to  see  the  ballet.  I  have  never  liked 
the  ballet,  and  have  always  felt  a  secret  disgust 
for  all  sorts  of  actresses,  singers,  and  dancers.  .  .  . 
But,  obviously,  one  cannot  change  his  fate,  nei- 
ther does  any  one  know  himself,  and  it  is  also 
impossible  to  foresee  the  future.  In  point  of 
fact,  nothing  happens  in  life  except  the  unex- 
pected, and  we  do  nothing  all  our  life  long  but 
adjust  ourselves  to  events.  .  .  .  But  I  believe  I 
am  dropping  into  philosophy  again.  Old  habit! 
...  In  a  word,  I  fell  in  love  with  a  dancer. 

This  was  all  the  more  strange  because  she 
could  not  be  called  a  beauty.  She  had,  it  is  true, 
wonderful  golden  hair,  with  an  ash  tinge,  and 
large,  bright  eyes,  with  a  pensive  and,  at  the  same 

162 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

time,  a  bold  glance.  .  .  .  Have  n't  I  cause  to 
know  the  expression  of  that  glance?  I  pined  and 
languished  for  a  whole  year  in  its  rays !  She  had 
a  splendid  figure,  and  when  she  danced  her  folk- 
dance,  the  spectators  used  to  stamp  and  shout 
with  rapture.  .  .  .  But  I  do  not  think  any  one 
besides  myself  fell  in  love  with  her— at  all  events, 
no  one  fell  in  love  with  her  as  I  did.  From  the 
very  minute  that  I  beheld  her  for  the  first  time— 
(will  you  believe  it?  all  I  have  to  do  even  now  is 
to  shut  my  eyes,  and  immediately  here  stands  be- 
fore me  the  theatre,  the  almost  empty  stage,  rep- 
resenting the  interior  of  a  forest,  and  she  runs 
out  from  behind  the  side-scenes  on  the  right,  with 
a  wreath  of  vine-leaves  on  her  head  and  a  tiger- 
skin  over  her  shoulders)  — from  that  fatal  minute 
I  belonged  to  her  wholly, — just  as  a  dog  belongs 
to  his  master ;  and  if  now,  when  I  am  dying,  I  do 
not  belong  to  her,  it  is  merely  because  she  has  cast 
me  off. 

To  tell  the  truth,  she  never  troubled  herself 
especially  about  me.  She  barely  noticed  me,  al- 
though she  good-naturedly  made  use  of  my 
money.  I  was  for  her,  as  she  expressed  it  in 
her  broken  French  jargon,  "  oun  Rousso  huon 
enf  an  "—and  nothing  more.  But  I  ....  I 
could  no  longer  live  anywhere  where  she  was  not ; 
I  tore  myself  at  one  wrench  from  all  that  was 
dear  to  me,  from  my  native  land  itself,  and  set  out 
in  pursuit  of  that  woman. 

163 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

Perhaps  you  think  that  she  was  clever?— Not 
in  the  least!  It  sufficed  to  cast  a  glance  at  her 
low  brow,  it  sufficed  to  note,  if  only  once,  her  lazy, 
heedless  smile,  in  order  instantly  to  convince  one's 
self  as  to  the  paucitj^  of  her  mental  abilities.  And 
I  never  imagined  her  to  be  a  remarkable  woman. 
On  the  whole,  I  did  not  deceive  myself  for  a  sin- 
gle minute  on  her  score.  But  that  did  not  help 
matters  in  the  least.  Whatever  I  thought  of  her 
in  her  absence,  in  her  presence  I  felt  nothing  but 
servile  adoration.  ...  In  the  German  fairy- 
tales the  knights  often  fall  into  that  sort  of 
stupor.  I  could  not  tear  my  eyes  from  her  fea- 
tures ;  I  could  not  hear  enough  of  her  remarks,  or 
sufficiently  watch  every  movement  of  hers;  to 
tell  the  truth,  I  actually  breathed  to  her  breath- 
ing. However,  she  was  good-natured,  uncon- 
strained— too  unconstrained  even;  she  did  not 
put  on  airs,  as  the  majority  of  artists  do.  She 
had  a  great  deal  of  life,  that  is,  a  great  deal  of 
blood,  of  that  splendid  Southern  blood,  into  which 
the  sun  of  their  land  must  have  dropped  a  portion 
of  his  rays.  She  slept  nine  hours  a  day,  was  fond 
of  good  eating,  never  read  a  single  line  of  print, 
unless,  perhaps,  the  articles  in  the  newspapers  in 
which  she  was  mentioned,  and  almost  the  sole 
tender  sentiment  in  her  life  was  her  attachment 
to  il  signore  Carlino,  a  small  and  greedy  Italian 
who  served  as  her  secretary  and  whom  she  after- 
ward married.    And  with  such  a  woman  as  this  I, 

164 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

who  have  tasted  so  many  varied  intellectual  sub- 
tleties, I,  already  an  old  man,  could  fall  in  love! 
Who  could  have  expected  it?  I  never  expected 
it,  at  all  events.  I  did  not  anticipate  the  part 
which  I  should  be  compelled  to  play.  I  did  not 
expect  that  I  should  haunt  rehearsals,  freeze  and 
get  bored  behind  the  scenes,  inhale  the  reek  of  the 
theatre,  make  acquaintance  with  various  un- 
seemly individuals  ....  what  am  I  saying? — 
make  acquaintance— bow  to  them.  I  had  not  ex- 
pected that  I  should  carry  a  dancer's  shawl,  buy 
new  gloves  for  her,  clean  her  old  ones  with  white 
bread  (but  I  did  it,  I  take  my  oath!) ,  cart  home 
her  bouquets,  run  about  to  the  anterooms  of  jour- 
nalists and  directors,  wear  myself  out,  give  sere- 
nades, catch  cold,  lose  my  strength.  ...  I  had 
not  expected  that  I  should  acquire  at  last  in  a 
certain  little  German  town  the  ingenious  nick- 
name of  "  der  Kunst-barbar.''  .  .  .  And  all  this 
in  vain — in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  word,  in 
vain!  There,  that  is  precisely  the  state  of  the 
case.  .  .  . 

Do  you  remember  how  you  and  I,  orally  and 
by  letter,  argued  about  love,  into  what  subtleties 
we  entered?  And  when  it  is  put  to  the  proof,  it 
turns  out  that  real  love  is  a  feeling  not  at  all  re- 
sembling that  which  we  imagined  it  to  be.  Love 
is  not  even  a  feeling  at  all ;  it  is  a  malady,  a  well- 
known  condition  of  the  soul  and  body.  It  does 
not  develop  gradually;  there  is  no  possibility  of 

165 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

doubting  it ;  one  cannot  dodge  it,  although  it  does 
not  always  manifest  itself  in  identically  the  same 
fashion.  It  generally  takes  possession  of  a  man 
without  being  invited,  suddenly,  against  his  will 
— precisely  like  the  cholera  or  a  fever.  ...  It 
lays  hold  upon  him,  the  dear  creature,  as  a  hawk 
does  upon  a  chicken;  and  it  will  bear  him  off 
whithersoever  it  wishes,  struggle  and  resist  as  he 
may.  ...  In  love  there  is  no  equality,  no  so- 
called  free  union  of  souls  and  other  ideal  things, 
invented  at  their  leisure  by  German  professors. 
.  .  .  No ;  in  love  one  person  is  the  slave,  the  other  • 
is  the  sovereign,  and  not  without  cause  do  the 
poets  prate  of  the  chains  imposed  by  love.  Yes, 
love  is  a  chain,  and  the  heaviest  of  chains  at  that. 
At  all  events,  I  have  arrived  at  that  conviction, 
and  have  reached  it  by  the  path  of  experience.  I 
have  purchased  that  conviction  at  the  price  of 
my  life,  because  I  am  dying  a  slave. 

Alack,  what  a  fate  is  mine!  one  thinks.  In 
my  youth  I  was  resolutely  determined  to  conquer 
heaven  for  myself.  .  .  .  Later  on,  I  fell  to 
dreaming  about  the  welfare  of  all  mankind,  the 
prosperity  of  my  fatherland.  Then  that  passed 
off:  I  thought  only  of  how  I  might  arrange  my 
domestic,  my  family  life  ....  and  I  tripped 
over  an  ant-hill— and  flop!  I  went  headlong  on 
the  ground,  and  into  the  grave.  .  .  .  What  mas- 
ter hands  we  Russians  are  at  winding  up  in  that 
fashion ! 

166 


A  CORRESPONDENCE 

However,  it  is  high  time  for  me  to  turn  away 
from  all  this,— it  was  time  long  ago!  May  this 
burden  fall  from  my  soul  along  with  my  life !  I 
wish  for  the  last  time,  if  only  for  a  moment,  to 
enjoy  that  good,  gentle  feeling  which  is  diffused 
within  me  like  a  tranquil  hght  as  soon  as  I  call 
you  to  mind.  Your  image  is  now  doubly  dear  to 
me.  .  .  .  Along  with  it  there  surges  up  before 
me  the  image  of  my  native  land,  and  I  waft  to  it 
and  to  you  my  last  greeting.  Live  on,  live  long 
and  happily,  and  remember  one  thing:  whether 
you  remain  in  that  remote  nook  of  the  steppes, 
where  you  sometimes  find  things  so  painful,  but 
where  I  should  so  like  to  spend  my  last  day,  or 
whether  you  shall  enter  upon  another  career, 
remember :  life  fails  to  disappoint  him  alone  who 
does  not  meditate  upon  it,  and,  demanding  no- 
thing from  it,  calmly  accepts  its  sparse  gifts,  and 
calmly  makes  use  of  them.  Go  forward,  while 
you  can:  but  when  your  feet  fail  you,— sit  down 
near  the  road,  and  gaze  at  the  passers-by  without 
vexation  and  without  envy:  for  they  will  not  go 
far!  I  have  said  this  to  you  before,  but  death 
will  teach  any  man  whomsoever;  moreover,  who 
shall  say  what  is  life,  what  is  truth?  Remember 
who  it  was  that  gave  no  answer  to  this  question. 
.  .  .  Farewell,  Marya  Alexandrovna ;  farewell  for 
the  last  time,  and  bear  no  ill  will  to  poor— 

Alexyei. 


167 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

(1854) 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 


IN  a  fairly-large  recently-whitewashed  cham- 
ber of  a  wing  of  the  manor-house  in  the 
village  of*  Sasovo,  ***  county,  T***  Govern- 
ment, a  young  man  in  a  paletot  was  sitting  at  a 
small,  warped  table,  looking  over  accounts.  Two 
stearine  candles,  in  silver  travelling-candlesticks, 
were  burning  in  front  of  him;  in  one  corner,  on 
the  wall-bench,  stood  an  open  bottle-case,  in  an- 
other a  servant  was  setting  up  an  iron  bed.  On 
the  other  side  of  a  low  partition  a  samovar  was 
murmuring  and  hissing ;  a  dog  was  nestling  about 
on  some  hay  which  had  just  been  brought  in.  In 
the  doorway  stood  a  peasant -man  in  a  new  over- 
coat girt  with  a  red  belt,  with  a  large  beard,  and 
an  intelligent  face — the  overseer,  judging  by  all 
the  tokens.  He  was  gazing  attentively  at  the 
seated  young  man. 

Against  one  wall  stood  a  very  aged,  tiny 
piano;  beside  it  an  equally-ancient  chest  of 
drawers  with  holes  in  place  of  the  locks ;  between 
the  windows  a  small,  dim  mirror  was  visible; 
on  the  partition-wall  hung  an  old  portrait,  which 

171 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

was  almost  completely  peeled  off,  representing 
a  woman  with  powdered  hair,  in  a  rohe  ronde,  and 
with  a  black  ribbon  about  her  slender  neck.  Judg- 
ing from  the  very  perceptible  sagging  of  the 
ceiling,  and  the  slope  of  the  floor,  which  was 
full  of  cracks,  the  little  wing  into  which  we  have 
conducted  the  reader  had  existed  for  a  very  long 
time.  No  one  lived  in  it  permanently ;  it  was  put 
to  use  when  the  owners  came.  The  young  man 
who  was  sitting  at  the  table  was  the  owner  of 
the  village  of  Sasovo.  He  had  arrived  only  on 
the  previous  day  from  his  principal  estate,  situ- 
ated a  hundred  versts  ^  distant,  and  was  prepar- 
ing to  depart  on  the  morrow,  after  completing 
the  inspection  of  the  farming,  listening  to  the 
demands  of  the  peasants,  and  verifying  all  the 
documents. 

"  Well,  that  will  do,"— he  said,  raising  his 
head;—"  I  am  tired.  Thou  mayest  go  now," — 
he  added,  turning  to  the  overseer; — "and  come 
very  early  to-morrow  morning,  and  notify  the 
peasants  at  daybreak  that  they  are  to  present 
themselves  in  assembly, — dost  hear  me?  " 

"  I  obey." 

"  And  order  the  estate-clerk  to  present  to  me 
the  report  for  the  last  month.  But  thou  hast 
done  well,"— the  gentleman  went  on,  casting  a 
glance  around  him,—"  in  whitewashing  the  walls. 
Everything  seems  cleaner." 

^  A  verst  is  two  thirds  of  a  mile.— Translatoe. 

172 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

The  overseer  silently  swept  a  glance  around 
the  walls  also. 

"  Well,  go  now." 

The  overseer  made  his  obeisance  and  left  the 
room. 

The  gentleman  stretched  himself. 

"Hey!"— he  shouted.— "  Give  me  some  tea! 
....  'T  is  time  to  go  to  bed." 

His  servant  went  to  the  other  side  of  the  par- 
tition, and  speedily  returned  with  a  glass  of  tea, 
a  bundle  of  town  cracknels,  and  a  cream- jug  on 
an  iron  tray.  The  gentleman  began  to  drink  tea, 
but  before  he  had  had  time  to  swallow  two  mouth- 
fuls,  the  noise  of  persons  entering  resounded 
from  an  adjoining  room,  and  some  one's  squeak- 
ing voice  inquired: 

"  Is  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  Astakhoff  at  home? 
Can  he  be  seen?  " 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  (that  was  the  name  of  the 
young  man  in  the  paletot)  cast  a  glance  of  sur- 
prise at  his  man,  and  said  in  a  hurried  whisper: 

"  Go,  find  out  who  it  is." 

The  man  withdrew,  slamming  behind  him  the 
door,  which  closed  badly. 

"  Announce  to  Vladimir  Sergyeitch,"— rang 
out  the  same  squeaking  voice  as  before,— "that 
his  neighbour  IpatofF  wishes  to  see  him,  if  it 
will  not  incommode  him;  and  another  neighbour 
has  come  with  me,  Bodryakoff ,  Ivan  Ihtch,  who 
also  desires  to  pay  his  respects." 

173 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  made  an  involuntary  ges- 
ture of  vexation.  Nevertheless,  when  his  man 
entered  the  room,  he  said  to  him : 

"  Ask  them  in."  And  he  arose  to  receive  his 
visitors. 

The  door  opened,  and  the  visitors  made  their 
appearance.  One  of  them,  a  robust,  grey-haired 
little  old  man,  with  a  small,  round  head  and 
bright  little  eyes,  walked  in  advance;  the  other, 
a  tall,  thin  man  of  three-and-thirty,  with  a  long, 
swarthy  face  and  dishevelled  hair,  walked  behind, 
with  a  shambling  gait.  The  old  man  wore  a  neat 
grey  coat  with  large,  mother-of-pearl  buttons; 
a  small,  pink  neckerchief,  half  concealed  by  the 
rolling  collar  of  his  white  shirt,  loosely  encircled 
his  neck;  his  feet  shone  resplendent  in  gaiters; 
the  plaids  of  his  Scotch  trousers  were  agreeably 
gay  in  hue ;  and,  altogether,  he  produced  a  pleas- 
ant impression.  His  companion,  on  the  contrary, 
evoked  in  the  spectator  a  less  favourable  sensa- 
tion :  he  wore  an  old  black  dress-coat,  buttoned  up 
to  the  throat;  his  full  trousers,  of  thick,  winter 
tricot,  matched  his  coat  in  colour;  no  linen  was 
visible,  either  around  his  throat  or  around  his 
wrists.  The  little  old  man  was  the  first  to  ap- 
proach Vladimir  Sergyeitch,  and,  with  an  amia- 
ble inclination  of  the  head,  he  began  in  the  same 
shrill  little  voice: 

"  I  have  the  honour  to  introduce  myself, — 
your   nearest   neighbour,   and   even   a   relative, 

174 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

IpatoiF,  Mikhailo  Nikolaitch.  I  have  long  wished 
to  have  the  pleasure  of  making  your  acquain- 
tance.   I  hope  that  I  have  not  disturbed  you." 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  replied  that  he  was  very 
glad  to  see  him,  and  that  he  was  not  disturbed 
in  the  least,  and  would  not  he  take  a  seat  .... 
and  drink  tea. 

"  And  this  nobleman,"— went  on  the  little  old 
man,  after  listening  with  a  courteous  smile  to 
Vladimir  Sergyeitch's  unfinished  phrases,  and 
extending  his  hand  in  the  direction  of  the  gentle- 
man in  the  dress-coat, — "also  your  neighbour 
....  and  my  good  acquaintance,  Ivan  Ilitch, 
strongly  desired  to  make  your  acquaintance." 

The  gentleman  in  the  dress-coat,  from  whose 
countenance  no  one  would  have  suspected  that 
he  was  capable  of  desiring  anything  strongly 
in  his  life— so  preoccupied  and,  at  the  same  time, 
so  sleepy  was  the  expression  of  that  countenance, 
— the  gentleman  in  the  dress-coat  bowed  clum- 
sily and  languidly.  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  bowed 
to  him  in  return,  and  again  invited  the  visitors  to 
be  seated. 

The  visitors  sat  down. 

"  I  am  very  glad,"— began  the  little  old  man, 
pleasantly  throwing  apart  his  hands,  while  his 
companion  set  to  scrutinising  the  ceiling,  with 
his  mouth  slightly  open:—"  I  am  very  glad  that 
I  have,  at  last,  the  honour  of  seeing  you  person- 
ally.   Although  you  have  your  permanent  resi- 

175 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

dence  in  a  county  which  lies  at  a.  considerable 
distance  from  these  localities,  still,  we  regard  you 
also  as  one  of  our  own  primordial  landed  pro- 
prietors, so  to  speak." 

"  That  is  very  flattering  to  me,"— returned 
Vladimir  Sergyeitch. 

"  Flattering  or  not,  it  is  a  fact.  You  must 
excuse  us,  Vladimir  Sergyeitch;  we  people  here 
in  ***  county  are  a  straightforward  folk ;  we  live 
in  our  simplicity;  we  say  what  we  think,  without 
circumlocution.  It  is  our  custom,  I  must  tell 
you,  not  to  call  upon  each  other  on  Name-days  * 
otherwise  than  in  our  frock-coats.  Truly!  We 
have  made  that  the  rule.  On  that  account,  we 
are  called  '  frock-coaters  '  in  the  adjoining  coun- 
ties, and  we  are  even  reproached  for  our  bad 
style;  hat  we  pay  no  attention  to  that!  Pray, 
what  is  r- '^  Use  of  living  in  the  country — and  then 
standing  on  ceremony? " 

"  Of  course,  what  can  be  better  ....  in  the 
country  ....  than  that  naturalness  of  inter- 
course,"— remarked  Vladimir  Sergyeitch. 

"  And  yet,"— replied  the  little  old  man,— 
*'  among  us  in  our  county  dwell  people  of  the 
cleverest  sort,— one  may  say  people  of  European 
culture,  although  they  do  not  wear  dress-suits. 

^  The  Name-day— that  is,  the  day  of  the  saint  after  whom  a  person 
is  named— is  observed  with  feasting  and  congratulation,  instead  of 
the  birthday.  For  ceremonious  calls,  no  matter  at  what  hour  of  the 
day,  a  man  who  has  no  official  uniform  must  wear  his  evening  suit, 
on  penalty  of  being  considered  ignorant  or  rude,  or  (in  official  circles) 
of  being  refused  admittanc.— Translator. 

176 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

Take,  for  example,  our  historian  EvsiukofF, 
Stepan  Stepanitch:  he  is  interesting  himself  in 
Russian  history  from  the  most  ancient  times,  and 
is  known  in  Petersburg— an  extremely  learned 
man!  There  is  in  our  town  an  ancient  Swedish 
cannon-ball  ....  't  is  placed  yonder,  in  the  cen- 
tre of  the  public  square  .  .  .  and  't  was  he  who 
discovered  it,  you  know!  Certainly!  Tzenteler, 
Anton  Karlitch  ....  now  he  has  studied  nat- 
ural history;  but  they  say  all  Germans  are  suc- 
cessful in  that  line.  When,  ten  years  ago,  a  stray 
hyena  was  killed  in  our  vicinity,  it  was  this  Anton 
Karlitch  who  discovered  that  it  really  was  a  hy- 
ena, by  cause  of  the  peculiar  construction  of  its 
tail.  And  then,  we  have  a  landed  proprietor  Ka- 
burdin:  he  chiefly  writes  light  articles;  he  wields 
a  very  dashing  pen ;  his  articles  appear  in  '  Gala- 
tea.' Bodryakoff,  ....  not  Ivan  Ilitch;  no, 
Ivan  Ilitch  neglects  that;  but  another  Bodrya- 
koff, Sergyei  ....  what  the  deuce  was  his  fa- 
ther's baptismal  name,  Ivan  Ilitch  ....  what 
the  deuce  was  it?  " 

"  Sergyeitch," — prompted  Ivan  Ilitch. 

"Yes;  Sergyei  Sergyeitch, — he  busies  himself 
with  writing  verses.  Well,  of  course  he  's  not  a 
Pushkin,  but  sometimes  he  gets  off  things  which 
would  pass  muster  even  in  the  capitals.  Do  you 
know  his  epigram  on  Agei  Fomitch?  " 

"What  Agei  Fomitch?" 

"  Akh,  pardon  me ;  I  keep  forgetting  that  you 
177 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

are  not  a  resident  here,  after  all.  He  is  our  chief 
of  police.  The  epigram  is  extremely  amusing. 
Thou  rememberest  it,  I  believe,  Ivan  Ilitch? " 

"  Agei  Fomitch,"— said  Bodryakoff,  indiffer- 
ently— 

"  .  .  .  .  not  without  cause  is  gloriously 
By  the  nobles'  election  honoured " 


"  I  must  tell  you,"— broke  in  IpatofF,— "  that 
he  was  elected  almost  exclusively  by  white  balls, 
for  he  is  a  most  worthy  man." 

"  Agei  Fomitch,"— repeated  BodryakoiF, 

**....  not  without  cause  is  gloriously 
By  the  nobles'  election  honoured: 
He  drinks  and  eats  regularly  .... 
So  why  should  not  he  be  the  regulator  of  order?  "^ 

The  little  old  man  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha!  that  is  n't  bad,  is  it?  Ever  since 
then,  if  you  '11  believe  me,  each  one  of  us  will 
say,  for  instance,  to  Agei  Fomitch:'  Good  morn- 
ing I  '—and  will  invariably  add:  '  so  why  should 
not  he  be  the  regulator  of  order? '  And  does 
Agei  Fomitch  get  angry,  think  you?  Not  in  the 
least.  No— that  's  not  our  way.  Just  ask  Ivan 
Ilitch  here  if  it  is." 

Ivan  Ilitch  merely  rolled  up  his  eyes. 

*'  Get  angry  at  a  jest — how  is  that  possible? 

*A  pun  is  intended!    isprdvno,  regularly,   in  orderly  manner; 
ispravniky  the  chief  of  poHce  in  a  rural  district.— translator. 

178 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

Now,  take  Ivan  Hitch  there ;  his  nickname  among 
us  is  '  The  Folding  Soul,'  because  he  agrees  to 
everything  very  promptly.  What  then?  Does 
Ivan  Ilitch  take  offence  at  that?    Never!  " 

Ivan  Ilitch,  slowly  blinking  his  eyes,  looked 
first  at  the  little  old  man,  then  at  Vladimir  Ser- 
gyeitch. 

The  epithet,  ''  The  Folding  Soul,"  really  did 
fit  Ivan  Ilitch  admirably.  There  was  not  a  trace 
in  him  of  what  is  called  will  or  character.  Any 
one  who  wished  could  lead  him  whithersoever  he 
would;  all  that  was  necessary  was  to  say  to  him: 
"  Come  on,  Ivan  Ilitch! " — and  he  picked  up  his 
cap  and  went;  but  if  another  person  turned  up, 
and  said  to  him:  "  Halt,  Ivan  Ilitch! " — he  laid 
down  his  cap  and  remained.  He  was  of  a  peace- 
able, tranquil  disposition,  had  lived  a  bachelor- 
life,  did  not  play  cards,  but  was  fond  of  sitting 
beside  the  players  and  looking  into  each  of  their 
faces  in  turn.  Without  society  he  could  not  exist, 
and  solitude  he  could  not  endure.  At  such  times 
he  became  despondent;  however,  this  happened 
very  rarely  with  him.  He  had  another  peculiar- 
ity: rising  from  his  bed  betimes  in  the  morning, 
he  would  sing  in  an  undertone  an  old  romance: 

**In  the  country  once  a  Baron 
Dwelt  in  simplicity  rural.  .  .  .'" 

In  consequence  of  this  peculiarity  of  Ivan 
Ilitch's,  he  was  also  called  "  The  Hawfinch,"  be- 

179 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

cause,  as  is  well  known,  the  hawfinch  when  in  cap- 
tivity sings  only  once  in  the  course  of  the  day, 
early  in  the  morning.  Such  was  Ivan  Hitch  Bo- 
dryakoff. 

The  conversation  between  Ipatoff  and  Vladi- 
mir Sergyeitch  lasted  for  quite  a  long  time,  but 
not  in  its  original,  so  to  speak,  speculative  direc- 
tion. The  little  old  man  questioned  Vladimir 
Sergyeitch  about  his  estate,  the  condition  of  his 
forests  and  other  sorts  of  land,  the  improvements 
which  he  had  already  introduced  or  was  only 
intending  to  introduce  in  his  farming;  he  im- 
parted to  him  several  of  his  own  observations ;  ad- 
vised him,  among  other  things,  in  order  to  get  rid 
of  hummocky  pastures,  to  sprinkle  them  with 
oats,  which,  he  said,  would  induce  the  pigs  to 
plough  them  up  with  their  snouts,  and  so  forth. 
But,  at  last,  perceiving  that  Vladimir  Sergyeitch 
was  so  sleepy  that  he  could  hardly  keep  his  eyes 
open,  and  that  a  certain  deliberation  and  inco- 
herence were  making  themselves  evident  in  his 
speech,  the  little  old  man  rose,  and,  with  a  courte- 
ous obeisance,  declared  that  he  would  not  in- 
commode him  any  longer  with  his  presence,  but 
that  he  hoped  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the 
valued  guest  at  his  own  house  not  later  than  the 
following  day,  at  dinner. 

"  And  the  first  person  you  meet,  not  to  men- 
tion any  small  child,  but,  so  to  speak,  any  hen 
or    peasant-woman," — he    added, — "  will    point 

180 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

out  to  you  the  road  to  my  village.  All  you  have 
to  do  is  to  ask  for  Ipatoff.  The  horses  will  trot 
there  of  themselves." 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  replied  with  a  little  hesi- 
tation— which,  however,  was  natural  to  him — 
that  he  would  try  .  .  .  that  if  nothing  pre- 
vented .... 

"  Yes,  we  shall  certainly  expect  you,"— the 
little  old  man  interrupted  him,  cordially,  shook 
his  hand  warmly,  and  briskly  withdrew,  exclaim- 
ing in  the  doorway,  as  he  half  turned  round: — 
"  Without  ceremony! " 

"  Folding  Soul  "  BodryakofF  bowed  in  silence 
and  vanished  in  the  wake  of  his  companion,  with 
a  preliminary  stumble  on  the  threshold. 

Having  seen  his  unexpected  guests  off,  Vladi- 
mir Sergj^eitch  immediately  undressed,  got  into 
bed,  and  went  to  sleep. 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  AstakhofF  belonged  to 
the  category  of  people  who,  after  having  cau- 
tiously tested  their  powers  in  two  or  three  dif- 
ferent careers,  are  wont  to  say  of  themselves 
that  they  have  finally  come  to  the  conclusion  to 
look  at  life  from  a  practical  point  of  view,  and 
who  devote  their  leisure  to  augmenting  their 
revenues.  He  was  not  stupid,  was  rather  penu- 
rious, and  very  sensible;  was  fond  of  reading,  of 
society,  of  music — but  all  in  moderation  .... 
and  bore  himself  very  decorously.  He  was 
twenty-seven  j^ears  old.     A  great  many  young 

181 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

men  of  his  sort  have  sprung  up  recently.  He  was 
of  medium  height,  well  built,  and  had  agreeable 
though  small  features;  their  expression  almost 
never  varied;  his  eyes  always  gleamed  with  one 
and  the  same  stern,  bright  glance;  only  now  and 
then  did  this  glance  soften  with  a  faint  shade  of 
something  which  was  not  precisely  sadness,  nor 
yet  precisely  boredom;  a  courteous  smile  rarely 
quitted  his  lips.  He  had  very  handsome,  fair  hair, 
silky,  and  falling  in  long  ringlets.  Vladimir  Ser- 
gyeitch  owned  about  six  hundred  souls  ^  on  a 
good  estate,  and  he  was  thinking  of  marriage — a 
marriage  of  inclination,  but  which  should,  at  the 
same  time,  be  advantageous.  He  was  particu- 
larly desirous  of  finding  a  wife  with  powerful 
connections.  In  a  word,  he  merited  the  appella- 
tion of  "  gentleman  "  which  had  recently  come 
into  vogue. 

When  he  rose  on  the  following  morning,  very 
early,  according  to  his  wont,  our  gentleman  oc- 
cupied himself  with  business,  and,  we  must  do 
him  the  justice  to  say,  did  so  in  a  decidedly  prac- 
tical manner,  wliich  cannot  always  be  said  of 
practical  young  men  among  us  in  Russia.  He 
patiently  listened  to  the  confused  petitions  and 
complaints  of  the  peasants,  gave  them  satisfac- 
tion so  far  as  he  was  able,  investigated  the  quar- 
rels and  dissensions  which  had  arisen  between 

^  Male  serfs.     The  women  and  children  did  not  figure  on  the 
revision  lists.— Translator. 

182 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

relatives,  exhorted  some,  scolded  others,  audited 
the  clerk's  accounts,  brought  to  light  two  or  three 
rascalities  on  the  part  of  the  overseer— in  a  word, 
handled  matters  in  such  wise  that  he  was  very 
well  satisfied  with  himself,  and  the  peasants,  as 
they  returned  from  the  assembly  to  their  homes, 
spoke  well  of  him. 

In  spite  of  his  promise  given  on  the  preceding 
evening  to  IpatofF,  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  dine  at  home,  and  had  even 
ordered  his  travelling-cook  to  prepare  his  favour- 
ite rice-soup  with  pluck ;  but  all  of  a  sudden,  pos- 
sibly in  consequence  of  that  feeling  of  satisfac- 
tion which  had  filled  his  soul  ever  since  the  early 
morning,  he  stopped  short  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  smote  himself  on  the  brow  with  his  hand, 
and,  not  without  some  spirit,  exclaimed  aloud: 
"  I  believe  I  '11  go  to  that  flowery  old  babbler! " 
No  sooner  said  than  done;  half  an  hour  later  he 
was  sitting  in  his  new  tarantas,  drawn  by  four 
stout  peasant-horses,  and  driving  to  Ipatoff's 
house,  which  was  reckoned  to  be  not  more  than 
twenty-five  versts  distant  by  a  capital  road. 

II 

MiKHAiLO  NiKOLAEViTCH  Ipatoff's  manor 
consisted  of  two  separate  small  mansions,  built 
opposite  each  other  on  the  two  sides  of  a  huge 
pond  through  which  ran  a  river.    A  long  dam, 

183 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

planted  with  silver  poplars,  shut  off  the  pond ;  al- 
most on  a  level  with  it  the  red  roof  of  a  small 
hand-mill  was  visible.  Built  exactly  alike,  and 
painted  with  the  same  lilac  hue,  the  tiny  houses 
seemed  to  be  exchanging  glances  across  the  broad, 
watery  expanse,  with  the  glittering  panes  of  their 
small,  clean  windows.  From  the  middle  of  each 
little  house  a  circular  terrace  projected,  and  a 
sharp-peaked  pediment  rose  aloft,  supported  by 
four  white  pillars  set  close  together.  The  an- 
cient park  ran  all  the  way  round  the  pond;  lin- 
dens stretched  out  in  alkys,  and  stood  in  dense 
clumps;  aged  pine-trees,  with  pale  yellow  boles, 
dark  oaks,  magnificent  maples  here  and  there 
reared  high  in  air  their  solitary  crests;  the  dense 
verdure  of  the  thickly-spreading  lilacs  and  aca- 
cias advanced  close  up  to  the  very  sides  of  the  two 
little  houses,  leaving  revealed  only  their  fronts, 
from  which  winding  paths  paved  w^ith  brick  ran 
down  the  slope.  Motley-hued  ducks,  white  and 
grey  geese  were  swimming  in  separate  flocks  on 
the  clear  water  of  the  pond ;  it  never  became  cov- 
ered with  scum,  thanks  to  abundant  springs 
which  welled  into  its  "  head  "  from  the  base  of  the 
steep,  rocky  ravine.  The  situation  of  the  manor 
was  good,  pleasant,  isolated,  and  beautiful. 

In  one  of  the  two  little  houses  dwelt  Mikhail 
Nikolaevitch  himself;  in  the  other  lived  his 
mother,  a  decrepit  old  woman  of  seventy  years. 
When  he  drove  on  to  the  dam,  Vladimir  Ser- 

184 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

gyeitch  did  not  know  to  which  house  to  betake 
himself.  He  glanced  about  him:  a  small  urchin 
of  the  house-serfs  was  fishing,  as  he  stood  bare- 
footed on  a  half -rotten  tree-stump.  Vladimir 
Sergyeitch  hailed  him. 

"  But  to  whom  are  you  going— to  the  old  lady 
or  to  the  young  master?  "—replied  the  urchin, 
without  taking  his  eyes  from  his  float. 

*'  What  lady?  "-replied  Vladimir  Sergyeitch. 
—"I  want  to  find  Mikhailo  Nikolaitch." 

"  Ah!  the  young  master?  Well,  then,  turn  to 
the  right." 

And  the  lad  gave  his  line  a  jerk,  and  drew 
from  the  motionless  water  a  small,  silvery  carp. 
Vladimir  Sergyeitch  drove  to  the  right. 

Mikhail  Nikolaitch  was  playing  at  draughts 
with  The  Folding  Soul  when  the  arrival  of  Vla- 
dimir Sergyeitch  was  announced  to  him.  He  was 
delighted,  sprang  from  his  arm-chair,  ran  out 
into  the  anteroom  and  there  kissed  the  visitor 
three  times. 

"  You  find  me  with  my  invariable  friend,  Vla- 
dimir Sergyeitch,"— began  the  loquacious  little 
old  man:—"  with  Ivan  Ihtch,  who,  I  will  remark 
in  passing,  is  completely  enchanted  with  your 
affability."  (Ivan  Ilitch  darted  a  silent  glance 
at  the  corner.)  "  He  was  so  kind  as  to  remain 
to  play  draughts  with  me,  while  all  my  household 
went  for  a  stroll  in  the  park ;  but  I  will  send  for 
them  at  once.  .  .  ." 

185 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

"But  why  disturb  them?  "—Vladimir  Ser- 
gyeitch  tried  to  expostulate.  .  .  . 

"  Not  the  least  inconvenience,  I  assure  you. 
Hey,  there,  Vanka,  run  for  the  young  ladies  as 
fast  as  thou  canst  .  .  .  tell  them  that  a  guest  has 
favoured  us  with  a  visit.  And  how  does  this 
locality  please  you?  It  's  not  bad,  is  it?  Ka- 
burdin  has  composed  some  verses  about  it.  '  Ipa- 
tovka,  refuge  lovely  '—that 's  the  way  they  begin, 
—and  the  rest  of  it  is  just  as  good,  only  I  don't 
remember  all  of  it.  The  park  is  large,  that 's  the 
trouble;  beyond  my  means.  And  these  two 
houses,  which  are  so  much  alike,  as  you  have, 
perhaps,  deigned  to  observe,  were  erected  by  two 
brothers — my  father  Nikolai,  and  my  uncle  Ser- 
gyei ;  they  also  laid  out  the  park ;  they  were  exem- 
plary friends  ....  Damon  and  ....  there 
now !  I  've  forgotten  the  other  man's  name.  .  .  ." 

"  Pythion,"— remarked  Ivan  llitch. 

"  Not  really?  Well,  never  mind."  (At  home 
the  old  man  talked  in  a  much  more  unconven- 
tional manner  than  when  he  was  paying  calls. )  — 
"  You  are,  probably,  not  ignorant  of  the  fact, 
Vladimir  Sergyeitch,  that  I  am  a  widower,  that 
I  have  lost  my  wife;  my  elder  children  are  in 
government  educational  institutions,^  and  I  have 
with  me  only  the  youngest  two,  and  my  sister-in- 
law  lives  with  me— my  wife's  sister;  you  will  see 

^  Of  different  grades  (civil  and  military),  for  the  children  of  the 
nobility  or  gentry.     They  are  not  charities. — Teanslatoh. 

186 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

her  directly.  But  why  don't  I  offer  you  some 
refreshment?  Ivan  llitch,  my  dear  fellow,  see 
to  a  little  luncheon  ....  what  sort  of  vodka 
are  you  pleased  to  prefer?  " 

"  I  drink  nothing  until  dinner." 

"Goodness,  how  is  that  possible!  However, 
as  you  please.  The  truest  hospitality  is  to  let 
the  guest  do  as  he  hkes.  We  are  very  simple- 
mannered  folk  here,  you  see.  Here  with  us,  if 
I  may  venture  so  to  express  myself,  we  live  not 
so  much  in  a  lonely  as  in  a  dead-calm  place,  a 
remote  nook — that  's  what!  But  why  don't  you 
sit  down? " 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  seated  himself,  without 
letting  go  of  his  hat. 

"  Permit  me  to  relieve  you," — said  Ipatoff, 
and  delicately  taking  his  hat  from  him,  he  car- 
ried it  off  to  a  corner,  then  returned,  looked  his 
visitor  in  the  eye  with  a  cordial  smile,  and,  not 
knowing  just  what  agreeable  thing  to  say  to  him, 
inquired,  in  the  most  hearty  manner,— whether  he 
was  fond  of  playing  draughts. 

"  I  play  all  games  badly,"— rephed  Vladimir 
Sergyeitch. 

"  And  that  's  a  very  fine  thing  in  you,"— re- 
turned IpatoiF:— "  but  draughts  is  not  a  game, 
but  rather  a  diversion— a  way  of  passing  leisure 
time;  is  n't  that  so,  Ivan  llitch? " 

Ivan  llitch  cast  an  indifferent  glance  at  Ipa- 
toff,  as   though   he   were   thinking   to   himself, 

187 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

"  The  devil  only  knows  whether  it  is  a  game  or 
a  diversion,"  but,  after  waiting  a  while,  he  said: 

"  Yes;  draughts  don't  count." 

"  Chess  is  quite  another  matter,  they  say," — 
pursued  Ipatoff ; — "  't  is  a  very  difficult  game, 
I  'm  told.  But,  in  my  opinion  ....  but  yonder 
come  my  people!" — he  interrupted  himself, 
glancing  through  the  half -open  glass  door,  which 
gave  upon  the  park. 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  rose,  turned  round,  and 
beheld  first  two  little  girls,  about  ten  years  of  age, 
in  pink  cotton  frocks  and  broad-brimmed  hats, 
who  were  running  alertly  up  the  steps  of  the 
terrace;  not  far  behind  them  a  tall,  plump,  well- 
built  young  girl  of  twenty,  in  a  dark  gown,  made 
her  appearance.  They  all  entered  the  house,  and 
the  little  girls  courtesied  sedately  to  the  visitor. 

"  Here,  sir,  let  me  present  you,"— said  the  host; 
— "  my  daughters,  sir.  This  one  here  is  named 
Katya,  and  this  one  is  Nastya,  and  this  is  my 
sister-in-law,  Marya  Pavlovna,  whom  I  have  al- 
ready had  the  pleasure  of  mentioning  to  you.  I 
beg  that  you  will  love  and  favour  them." 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  made  his  bow  to  Marya 
Pavlovna;  she  replied  to  him  with  a  barely  per- 
ceptible inclination  of  the  head. 

Marya  Pavlovna  held  in  her  hand  a  large,  open 
knife;  her  thick,  ruddy-blond  hair  was  slightly 
dishevelled,— a  small  green  leaf  had  got  en- 
tangled in  it,  her  braids  had  escaped  from  the 

188 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

comb, — her  dark-skinned  face  was  flushed,  and 
her  red  lips  were  parted ;  her  gown  looked  crum- 
pled. She  was  breathing  fast;  her  eyes  were 
sparkling ;  it  was  evident  that  she  had  been  work- 
ing in  the  garden.  She  immediately  left  the 
room ;  the  little  girls  ran  out  after  her. 

"  She  's  going  to  rearrange  her  toilet  a  bit," — 
remarked  the  old  man,  turning  to  Vladimir  Ser- 
gyeitch; — "they  can't  get  along  without  that, 
sir!" 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  grinned  at  him  in  re- 
sponse, and  became  somewhat  pensive.  Marya 
Pavlovna  had  made  an  impression  on  him.  It  was 
long  since  he  had  seen  such  a  purely  Russian 
beauty  of  the  steppes.  She  speedily  returned, 
sat  down  on  the  divan,  and  remained  motionless. 
She  had  smoothed  her  hair,  but  had  not  changed 
her  gown, — had  not  even  put  on  cuffs.  Her  fea- 
tures expressed  not  precisely  pride,  but  rather 
austerity,  almost  harshness;  her  brow  was  broad 
and  low,  her  nose  short  and  straight ;  a  slow,  lazy 
smile  curled  her  lips  from  time  to  time;  her 
straight  eyebrows  contracted  scornfully.  She 
kept  her  large,  dark  eyes  almost  constantly  low- 
ered. "  I  know,"  her  repellent  young  face  seemed 
to  be  saying;  "  I  know  that  you  are  all  looking 
at  me;  well,  then,  look;  you  bore  me."  But 
when  she  raised  her  eyes,  there  was  something 
wild,  beautiful,  and  stolid  about  them,  which  was 
suggestive  of  the  eyes  of  a  doe.    She  had  a  mag- 

189 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

nificent  figure.  A  classical  poet  would  have  com- 
pared her  to  Ceres  or  Juno. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  in  the  garden?  " 
—  IpatofF  asked  her,  being  desirous  of  bringing 
her  into  the  conversation. 

"  I  have  been  cutting  off  dead  branches,  and 
digging  up  the  flower-beds,"  she  replied,  in  a 
voice  which  was  rather  low,  but  agreeable  and 
resonant. 

"  And  are  you  tired?  " 

"  The  children  are ;  I  am  not." 

"  I  know,"— interposed  the  old  man,  with  a 
smile;—"  thou  art  a  regular  Bobelina!  And  have 
you  been  to  grandmamma's?  " 

"  Yes;  she  is  asleep." 

"Are  you  fond  of  flowers?  "—Vladimir  Ser- 
gyeitch  asked  her. 

"  Yes." 

"  Why  dost  thou  not  put  on  thy  hat  when  thou 
goest  out  of  doors?  " — IpatofF  remarked  to  her. 
— "  Just  see  how  red  and  sunburned  thou  art." 

She  silently  passed  her  hand  over  her  face. 
Her  hands  were  not  large,  but  rather  broad,  and 
decidedly  red.     She  did  not  wear  gloves. 

"  And  are  you  fond  of  gardening?  " — Vladi- 
mir Sergyeitch  put  another  question  to  her. 

"  Yes." 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  began  to  narrate  what  a 
fine  garden  there  was  in  his  neighbourhood,  be- 
longing to  a  wealthy  landed  proprietor  named 

190 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

N***. — The  head  gardener,  a  German,  received 
in  wages  alone  two  thousand  rubles,  silver^ — he 
said,  among  other  things. 

"  And  what  is  the  name  of  that  gardener?  " — 
inquired  Ivan  Ilitch,  suddenly. 

"  I  don't  remember,— Meyer  or  Miiller,  I 
think.    But  why  do  you  ask?  " 

"  For  no  reason  in  particular,  sir," — replied 
Ivan  Ilitch.—"  To  find  out  his  name." 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  continued  his  narration. 
The  little  girls,  Mikhail  Nikolaitch's  daughters, 
entered,  sat  down  quietly,  and  quietly  began  to 
listen.  .  .  . 

A  servant  made  his  appearance  at  the  door, 
had  announced  that  Egor  Kapitonitch  had  ar- 
rived. 

"  Ah!  Ask  him  in,  ask  him  in!  "—exclaimed 
Ipatoff. 

There  entered  a  short,  fat  little  old  man,  one 
of  the  sort  of  people  who  are  called  squat  or 
dumpy,  with  a  puffy  and,  at  the  same  time,  a 
wrinkled  little  face,  after  the  fashion  of  a  baked 
apple.  He  wore  a  grey  hussar  jacket  with  black 
braiding  and  a  standing  collar;  his  full  coffee- 
coloured  velveteen  trousers  ended  far  above  his 
ankles. 

"  Good  morning,  my  most  respected  Egor 
Kapitonitch,"— exclaimed  Ipatoff,  advancing  to 

1  In  those  days  there  was  a  great  difference  in  the  value  of  silver  and 
paper  money  hence  the  kind  is  usually  specified. —Translator. 

191 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

meet  him. — "  We  have  n't  seen  each  other  for  a 
long  time." 

"  Could  n't  be  helped," — returned  Egor  Kapi- 
tonitch  in  a  lisping  and  whining  voice,  after  hav- 
ing preliminarily  exchanged  salutations  with  all 
present;— "  surely  you  know,  Mikhail  Sergye- 
itch,  whether  I  am  a  free  man  or  not? " 

"  And  how  are  you  not  a  free  man,  Egor  Kapi- 
tonitch?" 

*'  Why,  of  course  I  'm  not,  Mikhail  Nikola- 
itch;  there  's  my  family,  my  affairs.  .  .  .  And 
there  's  Matryona  Markovna  to  boot,"  and  he 
waved  his  hand  in  despair. 

"  But  what  about  Matryona  Markovna?  " 

And  IpatofF  launched  a  slight  wink  at  Vla- 
dimir Sergj^eitch,  as  though  desirous  of  exciting 
his  interest  in  advance. 

"  Why,  everybody  knows," — returned  Egor 
Kapitonitch,  as  he  took  a  seat; — "  she  's  always 
discontented  with  me,  don't  you  know  that? 
Whatever  I  say,  it 's  wrong,  not  delicate,  not 
decorous.  And  why  it  is  n't  decorous,  the  Lord 
God  alone  knows.  And  the  young  ladies,  my 
daughters  that  is  to  say,  do  the  same,  taking  pat- 
tern by  their  mother.  I  don't  say  but  what  Ma- 
tryona Markovna  is  a  very  fine  woman,  but  she  's 
awfully  severe  on  the  score  of  manners." 

"  But,  good  gracious!  in  what  way  are  your 
manners  bad,  Egor  Kapitonitch?  " 

"  That 's  exactly  what  I  'd  like  to  know  myself; 

192 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

but,  evidently,  she  's  hard  to  suit.  Yesterday, 
for  instance,  I  said  at  table :  '  Matryona  Mar- 
kovna,'  "  (and  Egor  Kapitonitch  imparted  to 
his  voice  an  insinuating  inflection,—"  '  Matryona 
Markovna,'  says  I,  '  what  's  the  meaning  of  this, 
—that  Aldoshka  is  n't  careful  with  the  horses, 
does  n't  know  how  to  drive? '  says  I;  '  there  's  the 
black  stallion  quite  foundered.'— I-iikh!  how  Ma- 
tryona Markovna  did  flare  up,  and  set  to  crying 
shame  on  me :  '  Thou  dost  not  know  how  to  ex- 
press thyself  decently  in  the  society  of  ladies,' 
says  she ;  and  the  young  ladies  instantly  galloped 
away  from  the  table,  and  on  the  next  day,  the 
Biriuloff"  young  ladies,  my  wife's  nieces,  had 
heard  all  about  it.  And  how  had  I  expressed  my- 
self badly?  And  no  matter  what  I  say — and 
sometimes  I  really  am  incautious,— no  matter  to 
whom  I  say  it,  especially  at  home, — those  Biriu- 
loff*  girls  know  all  about  it  the  next  day.  A  fel- 
low simply  does  n't  know  what  to  do.  Sometimes 
I  'm  just  sitting  so,  thinking  after  my  fashion, 
— I  breathe  hard,  as  perhaps  you  know, — and 
Matryona  Markovna  sets  to  berating  me  again: 
'Don't  snore,'  says  she;  'nobody  snores  nowa- 
days!'— 'What  art  thou  scolding  about,  Ma- 
tryona Markovna? '  says  I.  '  Good  mercy,  thou 
shouldst  have  compassion,  but  thou  scoldest.' 
So  I  don't  meditate  at  home  any  more.  I  sit 
and  look  down— so — all  the  time.  By  Heaven,  I 
do.    And  then,  again,  not  long  ago,  we  got  into 

193 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

bed ;  '  Matryona  Markovna,'  says  I, '  what  makes 
thee  spoil  thy  page-boy,  matushka?^  Why,  he  's  a 
regular  little  pig,'  says  I, '  and  he  might  wash  his 
face  of  a  Sunday,  at  least.'  And  what  happened? 
It  strikes  me  that  I  said  it  distantly,  tenderly,  but 
I  did  n't  hit  the  mark  even  then ;  Matryona  Mar- 
kovna began  to  cry  shame  on  me  again :  '  Thou 
dost  not  understand  how  to  behave  in  the  society 
of  ladies,'  says  she;  and  the  next  day  the  Biriii- 
lofF  girls  knew  all  about  it.  What  time  have  I 
to  think  of  visits  under  such  circumstances,  Mi- 
khail Nikolaitch? " 

"  I  'm  amazed  at  what  you  tell  me," — replied 
IpatofF;— "  I  did  not  expect  that  from  Matryona 
Markovna.    Apparently,  she  is  .  .  .  ." 

"  An  extremely  fine  woman," — put  in  Egor 
Kapitonitch;— "  a  model  wife  and  mother,  so  to 
speak,  only  strict  on  the  score  of  manners.  She 
says  that  erisemhle  is  necessary  in  everything,  and 
that  I  have  n't  got  it.  I  don't  speak  French,  as 
you  are  aware,  I  only  understand  it.  But  what 's 
that  ensemble  that  I  have  n't  got?  " 

IpatofF,  who  was  not  very  strong  in  French 
himself,  only  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  And  how  are  your  children — your  sons,  that 
is  to  say?  "—he  asked  Egor  Kapitonitch  after  a 
brief  pause. 

Egor  Kapitonitch  darted  an  oblique  glance  at 
him. 

1  Literally,  "  dear  little  mother."— Translator. 

194) 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

"  My  sons  are  all  right.  I  'm  satisfied  with 
them.  The  girls  have  got  out  of  hand,  but  I  'm 
satisfied  with  my  sons.  Lyolya  discharges  his  ser- 
vice well,  his  superior  officers  approve  of  him; 
that  Lyolya  of  mine  is  a  clever  fellow.  Well, 
Mikhetz — he  's  not  like  that;  he  has  turned  out 
some  sort  of  a  philanthropist." 

"  Why  a  philanthropist?  " 

"The  Lord  knows;  he  speaks  to  nobody,  he 
shuns  folks.  Matryona  Markovna  mostly 
abashes  him.  '  Why  dost  thou  take  pattern  by 
thy  father? '  she  says  to  him.  '  Do  thou  respect 
him,  but  copy  thy  mother  as  to  manners.'  He  '11 
get  straightened  out,  he  '11  turn  out  all  right 
also." 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  asked  IpatofF  to  intro- 
duce him  to  Egor  Kapitonitch.  They  entered 
into  conversation.  INIarya  Pavlovna  did  not  take 
part  in  it;  Ivan  Ilitch  seated  himself  beside  her, 
and  said  two  words,  in  all,  to  her;  the  little  girls 
came  up  to  him,  and  began  to  narrate  something 
to  him  in  a  whisper.  .  .  .  The  housekeeper  en- 
tered, a  gaunt  old  woman,  with  her  head  bound 
up  in  a  dark  kerchief,  and  announced  that  dinner 
was  ready.  All  wended  their  way  to  the  dining- 
room. 

The  dinner  lasted  for  quite  a  long  time.  Ipa- 
tofF kept  a  good  cook,  and  ordered  pretty  good 
wines,  not  from  Moscow,  but  from  the  capital 
of  the  government.    Ipatoff*  lived  at  his  ease,  as 

195 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

the  saying  goes.  He  did  not  own  more  than  three 
hundred  souls,  but  he  was  not  in  debt  to  any 
one,  and  had  brought  his  estate  into  order.  At 
table,  the  host  himself  did  the  greater  part  of 
the  talking;  Egor  Kapitonitch  chimed  in,  but  did 
not  forget  himself,  at  the  same  time;  he  ate  and 
drank  gloriously.  Marya  Pavlovna  preserved 
unbroken  silence,  only  now  and  then  replying 
with  half -smiles  to  the  hurried  remarks  of  the 
two  little  girls,  who  sat  one  on  each  side  of  her. 
They  were,  evidently,  very  fond  of  her.  Vladimir 
Sergyeitch  made  several  attempts  to  enter  into 
conversation  with  her,  but  without  particular  suc- 
cess. Folding  Soul  Bodryakoff  even  ate  indo- 
lently and  languidly.  After  dinner  all  went  out 
on  the  terrace  to  drink  coffee.  The  weather  was 
magnificent;  from  the  garden  was  wafted  the 
sweet  perfume  of  the  lindens,  which  were  then  in 
full  flower ;  the  summer  air,  slightly  cooled  by  the 
thick  shade  of  the  trees,  and  the  humidity  of  the 
adjacent  pond,  breathed  forth  a  sort  of  caressing 
warmth.  Suddenly,  from  behind  the  poplars  of 
the  dam,  the  trampling  of  a  horse's  hoofs  became 
audible,  and  a  moment  later,  a  horsewoman  made 
her  appearance  in  a  long  riding-habit  and  a  grey 
hat,  mounted  on  a  bay  horse;  she  was  riding  at  a 
gallop;  a  page  was  galloping  behind  her,  on  a 
small,  white  cob. 

"  Ah  !  "  —  exclaimed  IpatofF,  —  "  Nadezhda 
Alexyeevna  is  coming.  What  a  pleasant  sur- 
prise! " 

196 


THE   REGION   OF  DEAD   CALM 

"  Alone?  "—asked  Marya  Pavlovna,  who  up 
to  that  moment  had  been  standing  motionless  in 
the  doorway. 

*'  Alone.  .  .  .  Evidently,  something  has  de- 
tained Piotr  Alexyeevitch." 

Marya  Pavlovna  darted  a  sidelong  glance  from 
beneath  her  brows,  a  flush  overspread  her  face, 
and  she  turned  away. 

In  the  meantime,  the  horsewoman  had  ridden 
through  the  wicket-gate  into  the  garden,  gal- 
loped up  to  the  terrace,  and  sprang  lightly  to  the 
ground,  without  waiting  either  for  her  groom 
or  for  Ipatofl",  who  had  started  to  meet  her. 
Briskly  gathering  up  the  train  of  her  riding- 
habit,  she  ran  up  the  steps,  and  springing  upon 
the  terrace,  exclaimed  blithely: 

"Here  I  am!" 

"  Welcome!  "—said  Ipatofl*.- "  How  unex- 
pected, how  charming  this  is!  Allow  me  to  kiss 
your  hand.  .  .  ." 

"  Certainly,"— returned  the  visitor;  "  only,  you 
must  pull  ofl"  the  glove  yourself.— I  cannot." 
And,  extending  her  hand  to  him,  she  nodded  to 
Marya  Pavlovna.—"  Just  fancy,  Masha,  my 
brother  will  not  be  here  to-day,"— she  said,  with 
a  little  sigh. 

"  I  see  for  myself  that  he  is  not  here,"— replied 
Marya  Pavlovna  in  an  undertone. 

"  He  bade  me  say  to  thee  that  he  is  busy. 
Thou  must  not  be  angry.  Good  morning,  Egor 
Kapitonitch;  good  morning,  Ivan  Ilitch;  good 

197 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

morning,  children.  .  .  .  Vasya,"— added  the 
guest,  turning  to  her  small  groom,—"  order  them 
to  walk  Little  Beauty  up  and  down  well,  dost 
hear?  Masha,  please  give  me  a  pin,  to  fasten 
up  my  train.  .  .  .  Come  here,  Mikhail  Niko- 
laitch." 

Ipatoif  went  closer  to  her. 

"  Who  is  that  new  person?  "—she  asked,  quite 
loudly. 

"  That  is  a  neighbour,  AstakhofF,  Vladimir 
Sergyeevitch,  you  know,  the  owner  of  Sasov^o. 
I  '11  introduce  him  if  you  like,  shall  I  ?  " 

"  Very  well  ....  afterward.  Akh,  what 
splendid  weather!  "—she  went  on.—"  Egor  Ka- 
pitonitch,  tell  me— can  it  be  possible  that  Ma- 
tryona  Markovna  growls  even  in  such  weather  as 
this?" 

"  Matryona  Markovna  never  grumbles  in  any 
sort  of  weather,  madam;  and  she  is  merely  strict 
on  the  score  of  manners.  .  ." 

"  And  what  are  the  BiriulofF  girls  doing? 
They  know  all  about  it  the  next  day,  don't 
they?  .  .  .  ."  And  she  burst  into  a  ringing,  sil- 
very laugh. 

"  You  are  pleased  to  laugh  constantly,"— re- 
turned Egor  Kapitonitch.— "  However,  when 
should  a  person  laugh,  if  not  at  your  age?  " 

"  Egor  Kapitonitch,  don't  get  angry,  my  dear 
man !    Akh,  I  'm  tired ;  allow  me  to  sit  down. .  .  ." 

Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  dropped  into  an  arm- 
198 


thl:  region  of  dead  calm 

chair,  and  playfully  pulled  her  hat  down  over  her 
very  eyes. 

Ipatoff  led  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  up  to  her. 

"  Permit  me,  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna,  to  present 
to  you  our  neighbour,  Mr.  Astakhoff,  of  whom 
you  have,  probably,  heard  a  great  deal." 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  made  his  bow,  while 
Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  looked  up  at  him  from 
under  the  brim  of  her  round  hat. 

"  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  VeretyefF,  our  neigh- 
bour,"— went  on  IpatofF,  turning  to  Vladimir 
Sergyeitch.  — "  She  lives  here  with  her  brother, 
Piotr  Alexyeitch,  a  retired  lieutenant  of  the 
Guards.  She  is  a  great  friend  of  my  sister-in- 
law,  and  bears  good  will  to  our  household  in 
general." 

"  A  whole  formal  inventory," — said  Nadezhda 
Alexyeevna,  laughing,  and,  as  before,  scanning 
Vladimir  Sergyeitch  from  under  her  hat. 

But,  in  the  meantime,  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  was 
thinking  to  himself:  "  Why,  this  is  a  very  pretty 
woman  also."  And,  in  fact,  Nadezhda  Alex- 
yeevna was  a  very  charming  young  girl.  Slender 
and  graceful,  she  appeared  much  younger  than 
she  really  was.  She  was  already  in  her  twenty- 
eighth  year.  She  had  a  round  face,  a  small  head, 
fluffy  fair  hair,  a  sharp,  almost  audaciously  up- 
turned little  nose,  and  meriy,  almost  crafty  little 
eyes.  Mockery  fairly  glittered  in  them,  and 
kindled  in  them  in  sparks.     Her  features,  ex- 

199 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

tremely  vivacious  and  mobile,  sometimes  assumed 
an  almost  amusing  expression;  humour  peered 
forth  from  them.  Now  and  then,  for  the  most 
part  suddenly,  a  shade  of  pensiveness  flitted 
across  her  face,— and  at  such  times  it  became 
gentle  and  kindly;  but  she  could  not  surrender 
herself  long  to  meditation.  She  easily  seized 
upon  the  ridiculous  sides  of  people,  and  drew 
very  respectable  caricatures.  Everybody  had 
petted  her  ever  since  she  was  born,  and  that  is 
something  which  is  immediately  perceptible; 
people  who  have  been  spoiled  in  childhood  pre- 
serve a  certain  stamp  to  the  end  of  their  lives. 
Her  brother  loved  her,  although  he  asserted  that 
she  stung,  not  hke  a  bee,  but  like  a  wasp;  be- 
cause a  bee  stings  and  then  dies,  whereas  it  sig- 
nifies nothing  for  a  wasp  to  sting.  This  compari- 
son enraged  her. 

"  Have  you  come  here  for  long? " — she  asked 
Vladimir  Sergyeitch,  dropping  her  eyes,  and 
twisting  her  riding-whip  in  her  hands. 

"No;  I  intend  to  go  away  from  here  to- 
morrow." 

"  Whither? " 

"  Home." 

"  Home?    Why,  may  I  venture  to  ask?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  why  '?  I  have  affairs 
at  home  which  do  not  brook  delay." 

Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  looked  at  him. 

"Are  you  such  a  .  .  .  .  punctual  man?" 
200 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

*'  I  try  to  be  a  punctual  man,"— replied  Vladi- 
mir Sergyeitch.  — "  In  our  sedate  era,  every  hon- 
ourable man  must  be  sedate  and  punctual." 

"  That  is  perfectly  just," — remarked  Ipatoff. 
— "  Is  n't  that  true  Ivan  flitch?  " 

Ivan  Ilitch  merely  glanced  at  Ipatoff;  but 
Egor  Kapitonitch  remarked: 

"  Yes,  that  's  so." 

"  'T  is  a  pity,"— said  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna; 
— "  precisely  what  we  lack  is  a  jeune  premier. 
You  know  how  to  act  comedy,  I  suppose?  " 

"  I  have  never  put  my  powers  in  that  line  to 
the  test." 

"  I  am  convinced  that  you  would  act  well.  You 
have  that  sort  of  bearing  ....  a  stately  mien, 
which  is  indispensable  in  a  jeune  premier.  My 
brother  and  I  are  preparing  to  set  up  a  theatre 
here.  However,  we  shall  not  act  comedies 
only:  we  shall  act  all  sorts  of  things — dramas, 
ballets,  and  even  tragedies.  Why  would  n't 
Masha  do  for  Cleopatra  or  Phedre?  Just  look 
at  her!" 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  turned  round.  .  .  .  Marya 
Pavlovna  was  gazing  thoughtfully  into  the  dis- 
tance, as  she  stood  leaning  her  head  against  the 
door,  with  folded  arms.  .  .  .  At  that  moment, 
her  regular  features  really  did  suggest  the  faces 
of  ancient  statues.  She  did  not  catch  Nadezhda 
Alexyeevna's  last  words;  but,  perceiving  that 
the  glances  of  all  present  were  suddenly  directed 

201 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

to  her,  she  immediately  divined  what  was  going 
on,  blushed,  and  was  about  to  retreat  into  the 
drawing-room.  .  .  .  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna 
briskly  grasped  her  by  the  hand  and,  with  the 
coquettish  caressing  action  of  a  kitten,  drew  her 
toward  her,  and  kissed  that  almost  masculine 
hand.  Marya  Pavlovna  flushed  more  vividly  than 
before. 

"  Thou  art  always  playing  pranks,  Nadya," — 
she  said. 

"  Did  n't  I  speak  the  truth  about  thee?  I 
am  ready  to  appeal  to  all.  .  .  .  Well,  enough, 
enough,  I  won't  do  it  again.  But  I  will  say 
again,"— went  on  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna,  ad- 
dressing Vladimir  Sergyeitch, — "  that  it  is  a  pity 
you  are  going  away.  We  have  a  jeune  premier^ 
it  is  true;  he  calls  liimself  so,  but  he  is  very  bad." 

"  Who  is  he?  permit  me  to  inquire." 

"  BodryakofF  the  poet.  How  can  a  poet  be  a 
jeune  premier?  In  the  first  place,  he  dresses  in 
the  most  frightful  way;  in  the  second  place,  he 
writes  epigrams,  and  gets  shy  in  the  presence  of 
every  woman,  even  in  mine.  He  lisps,  one  of  his 
hands  is  always  higher  than  his  head,  and  I  don't 
know  what  besides.  Tell  me,  please,  M'sieu 
AstakhoiF,  are  all  poets  like  that?  " 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  drew  himself  up  slightly. 

"  I  have  never  known  a  single  one  of  them, 
personally;  but  I  must  confess  that  I  have  never 
sought  acquaintance  with  them." 

202 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

"  Yes,  you  certainly  are  a  positive  man.  We 
shall  have  to  take  BodryakoiF ;  there  's  nothing 
else  to  be  done.  Other  jeunes  premiers  are  even 
worse.  That  one,  at  all  events,  will  learn  his  part 
by  heart.  Masha,  in  addition  to  tragic  roles,  will 
fill  the  post  of  prima  donna.  .  .  .  You  have  n't 
heard  her  sing,  have  you,  M'sieu  Astakhoff?" 

"  No," — replied  Vladimir  Sergyeitch,  display- 
ing his  teeth  in  a  smile ;  "  and  I  did  not  know . . . ." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  thee  to-day,  Na- 
dya? "—said  Marya  Pavlovna,  with  a  look  of  dis- 
pleasure. 

Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Masha,  do  sing  us  some- 
thing, please.  ...  I  won't  let  thee  alone  until 
thou  singest  us  something,  Masha  dearest.  I 
would  sing  myself,  to  entertain  the  visitors,  but 
thou  knowest  what  a  bad  voice  I  have.  But,  on 
the  other  hand,  thou  shalt  see  how  splendidly  I 
will  accompany  thee." 

Marya  Pavlovna  made  no  reply. 

"  There  's  no  getting  rid  of  thee," — she  said  at 
last. — "  Like  a  spoiled  child,  thou  art  accustomed 
to  have  all  thy  caprices  humoured.  I  will  sing, 
if  you  like." 

"  Bravo,  bravo!  "—exclaimed  Nadezhda  Alex- 
yeevna, clapping  her  hands. — "  Let  us  go  into  the 
drawing-room,  gentlemen. — And  as  for  caprices," 
—she  added,  laughing, — "I'll  pay  you  off  for 
that!    Is  it  permissible  to  expose  my  weaknesses 

203 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

in  the  presence  of  strangers?  Egor  Kapitonitch, 
does  Matryona  Markovna  shame  you  thus  before 
people? " 

"  Matryona  Markovna,"— muttered  Egor  Ka- 
pitonitch,— "  is  a  very  worthy  lady;  only,  on  the 
score  of  manners  .  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  come  along,  come  along!  " — Nadezhda 
Alexyeevna  interrupted  him,  and  entered  the 
drawing-room. 

All  followed  her.  She  tossed  off  her  hat  and 
seated  herself  at  the  piano.  Marya  Pavlovna 
stood  near  the  wall,  a  good  way  from  Nadezhda 
Alexyeevna. 

"  Masha,"— said  the  latter,  after  reflecting  a 
little,—"  sing  us  '  The  farm-hand  is  sowing  the 

•  ?    5'    1 

gram. 

Marya  Pavlovna  began  to  sing.  Her  voice 
was  pure  and  powerful,  and  she  sang  well— sim- 
ply, and  without  affectation.  All  listened  to  her 
with  great  attention,  while  Vladimir  Sergyeitch 
could  not  conceal  his  amazement.  When  Marya 
Pavlovna  had  finished,  he  stepped  up  to  her,  and 
began  to  assure  her  that  he  had  not  in  the  least 
expected  .... 

,  "Wait,  there  's  something  more  coming!"— 
Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  interrupted  him.—"  Ma- 
sha, I  will  soothe  thy  Topknot  ^  soul:— Now  sing 
us  '  Humming,  humming  in  the  trees.'  " 

1  A  little  Russian  song. —Translator. 

2  The  popular  nickname  among  Great  Russians  for  the  Little  Rus- 
sians. —Translator. 

204 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

"  Are  you  a  Little  Russian?  "—Vladimir  Ser- 
gyeitch  asked  her. 

"  I  am  a  native  of  Little  Russia,"  she  replied, 
and  began  to  sing  "  Humming,  humming." 

At  first  she  uttered  the  words  in  an  indifferent 
manner ;  but  the  mournfully  passionate  lay  of  her 
fatherland  gradually  began  to  stir  her,  her  cheeks 
flushed  scarlet,  her  glance  flashed,  her  voice  rang 
out  fervently.    She  finished. 

"  Good  heavens !  How  well  thou  hast  sung 
that!" — said  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna,  bending 
over  the  keys. — "  What  a  pity  that  my  brother 
was  not  here!  " 

Marya  Pavlovna  instantly  dropped  her  eyes, 
and  laughed  with  her  customary  bitter  little 
laugh. 

"  You  must  give  us  something  more,"— re- 
marked IpatofF. 

"  Yes,  if  you  will  be  so  good," — added  Vla- 
dimir Sergyeitch. 

"  Excuse  me,  I  will  not  sing  any  more  to-day," 
— said  Marya  Pavlovna,  and  left  the  room. 

Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  gazed  after  her,  first 
reflected,  then  smiled,  began  to  pick  out 
"  The  farm-hand  is  sowing  the  grain "  with 
one  finger,  then  suddenly  began  to  play  a  bril- 
liant polka,  and  without  finishing  it,  struck  a 
loud  chord,  clapped  to  the  lid  of  the  piano,  and 
rose. 

"  'T  is  a  pity  that  there  is  no  one  to  dance 
205 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

with!  " — she  exclaimed. — "  It  would  be  just  the 
thing!" 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  approached  her. 

"  What  a  magnificent  voice  Marya  Pavlovna 
has," — he  remarked; — "  and  with  how  much  feel- 
ing she  sings !  " 

"  And  are  you  fond  of  music?  " 

"Yes  ...  .  very." 

"  Such  a  learned  man,  and  you  are  fond  of 
music!  " 

"  But  what  makes  you  think  that  I  am 
learned?  " 

"  Akh,  yes ;  excuse  me,  I  am  always  forgetting 
that  you  are  a  positive  man.  But  where  has 
Marya  Pavlovna  gone?  Wait,  I  '11  go  after  her." 

And  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  fluttered  out  of 
the  drawing-room. 

"  A  giddy-pate,  as  you  see," — said  Ipatoif, 
coming  up  to  Vladimir  Sergyeitch; — "but  the 
kindest  heart.  And  what  an  education  she  re- 
ceived you  cannot  imagine;  she  can  express 
herself  in  all  languages.  Well,  they  are  wealthy 
people,  so  that  is  comprehensible." 

"  Yes," — articulated  Vladimir  Sergyeitch,  ab- 
stractedly,— "  she  is  a  very  charming  girl.  But 
permit  me  to  inquire,  Was  your  wife  also  a  native 
of  Little  Russia? " 

"  Yes,  she  was,  sir.  My  late  wife  was  a  Little 
Russian,  as  her  sister  Marya  Pavlovna  is.  My 
wife,  to  tell  the  truth,  did  not  even  have  a  per- 

206 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

fectly  pure  pronunciation;  although  she  was  a 
perfect  mistress  of  the  Russian  language,  still 
she  did  not  express  herself  quite  correctly;  they 
pronounce  ij  ui,  there,  and  their  hha  and  zhe  are 
peculiar  also,  you  know;  well,  Marya  Pavlovna 
left  her  native  land  in  early  childhood.  But  the 
Little  Russian  blood  is  still  perceptible,  is  n't  it?  " 

"  Marya  Pavlovna  sings  wonderfully," — re- 
marked Vladimir  Sergyeitch. 

"  Really,  it  is  not  bad.  But  why  don't  they 
bring  us  some  tea?  And  where  have  the  young 
ladies  gone?    'T  is  time  to  drink  tea." 

The  young  ladies  did  not  return  very  speedily. 
In  the  meantime,  the  samovar  was  brought,  the 
table  was  laid  for  tea.  IpatofF  sent  for  them. 
Both  came  in  together.  Marj^a  Pavlovna  seated 
herself  at  the  table  to  pour  the  tea,  while  Na- 
dezhda  Alexyeevna  walked  to  the  door  opening 
on  the  terrace,  and  began  to  gaze  out  into  the  gar- 
den. The  brilliant  summer  day  had  been  suc- 
ceeded by  a  clear,  calm  evening;  the  sunset  was 
flaming;  the  broad  pond,  half  flooded  with  its 
crimson,  stood  a  motionless  mirror,  grandly  re- 
flecting in  its  deep  bosom  all  the  airy  depths  of 
the  sky,  and  the  house,  and  the  trees  turned  up- 
side down,  and  had  grown  black,  as  it  were. 
Everything  was  silent  round  about.  There  was 
no  noise  anywhere. 

"Look,  how  beautiful!  "—said  Nadezhda 
Alexyeevna  to  Vladimir  Sergyeitch,  as  he  ap- 

207 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

proached  her;—"  down  below  there,  in  the  pond, 
a  star  has  kindled  its  fire  by  the  side  of  the  light 
in  the  house;  the  house-light  is  red,  the  other 
is  golden.  And  yonder  comes  grandmamma," — 
she  added  in  a  loud  voice. 

From  behind  a  clump  of  lilac-bushes  a  small 
calash  made  its  appearance.  Two  men  were 
drawing  it.  In  it  sat  an  old  lady,  all  wrapped 
up,  all  doubled  over,  with  her  head  resting  on  her 
breast.  The  ruffle  of  her  white  cap  almost  com- 
pletely concealed  her  withered  and  contracted 
little  face.  The  tiny  calash  halted  in  front  of  the 
terrace.  IpatofF  emerged  from  the  drawing- 
room,  and  his  little  daughters  ran  out  after  him. 
They  had  been  constantly  slipping  from  room 
to  room  all  the  evening,  like  little  mice. 

"  I  wish  you  good  evening,  dear  mother," — 
said  Ipatoff,  stepping  up  close  to  the  old  woman, 
and  elevating  his  voice. — "  How  do  you  feel?  " 

"  I  have  come  to  take  a  look  at  you," — said  the 
old  woman  in  a  dull  voice,  and  with  an  effort.— 
"  What  a  glorious  evening  it  is.  I  have  been 
asleep  all  day,  and  now  my  feet  have  begun  to 
ache.  Okh,  those  feet  of  mine !  They  don't  serve 
me,  but  they  ache." 

"  Permit  me,  dear  mother,  to  present  to  you 
our  neighbour,  Astakhoff ,  Vladimir  Sergyeitch." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  meet  you,"— returned  the 
old  woman,  scanning  him  with  her  large,  black, 
but  dim-sighted  eyes.—"  I  beg  that  you  will  love 

208 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

my  son.  He  is  a  fine  man;  I  gave  him  what 
education  I  could;  of  course,  I  did  the  best  a 
woman  could.  He  is  still  somewhat  flighty,  but, 
God  willing,  he  will  grow  steady,  and  't  is  high 
time  he  did ;  't  is  time  for  me  to  surrender  matters 
to  him.  Is  that  you,  Nadya?  "—added  the  old 
woman,  glancing  at  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna. 

"  Yes,  grandmamma." 

"  And  is  Masha  pouring  tea?  " 

*'  Yes,  grandmamma,  she  is  pouring  tea." 

"  And  who  else  is  there?  " 

"  Ivan  Ilitch,  and  Egor  Kapitonitch." 

"  The  husband  of  Matryona  Markovna?  " 

"  Yes,  dear  mother." 

The  old  woman  mumbled  with  her  lips. 

"Well,  good.  But  why  is  it,  Misha,  that  I 
can't  manage  to  get  hold  of  the  overseer?  Order 
him  to  come  to  me  very  early  to-morrow  morning ; 
I  shall  have  a  great  deal  of  business  to  arrange 
with  him.  I  see  that  nothing  goes  as  it  should 
with  you,  without  me.  Come,  that  will  do,  I  am 
tired ;  take  me  away.  .  .  .  Farewell,  batiushka ;  ^ 
I  don't  remember  your  name  and  patronymic,"— 
she  added,  addressing  Vladimir  Sergyeitch. 
"  Pardon  an  old  woman.  But  don't  come  with 
me,  grandchildren,  it  is  n't  necessary.  All  you 
care  for  is  to  run  all  the  time.  Masha  spoils  you. 
Well,  start  on." 

1  Literally,  "dear  little  father":  the  genuinely  Russian  mode  of 
address  to  a  man  of  any  class,  as  mdtushka  ("dear  little  mother")  is 
for  women  of  all  classes.  — Translator. 

209 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

The  old  woman's  head,  which  she  had  raised 
with  difficulty,  fell  back  again  on  her  breast.  .  .  . 

The  tiny  calash  started,  and  rolled  softly  away. 

"How  old  is  your  mother?" — inquired  Vla- 
dimir Sergyeitch. 

"  Only  in  her  seventy-third  year;  but  it  is 
twenty-six  years  since  her  legs  failed  her;  that 
happened  soon  after  the  demise  of  my  late  father. 
But  she  used  to  be  a  beauty." 

All  remained  silent  for  a  while. 

Suddenly,  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  gave  a  start. 
."Was  that— a  bat  flying  past?     Ai,  what  a 
fright!" 

And  she  hastily  returned  to  the  drawing- 
room. 

"  It  is  time  for  me  to  go  home,  Mikhail  Niko- 
laitch;  order  my  horse  to  be  saddled." 

"  And  it  is  time  for  me  to  be  going,  too," — 
remarked  Vladimir  Sergyeitch. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "—said  IpatofF.— 
"  Spend  the  night  here.  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna 
has  only  two  versts  to  ride,  while  you  have  fully 
twelve.  And  what  's  your  hurry,  too,  Nadezhda 
Alexyeevna  ?  Wait  for  the  moon ;  it  will  soon  be 
up  now.    It  will  be  lighter  to  ride." 

"  Very  well,"— said  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna. 
— "  It  is  a  long  time  since  I  had  a  moonlight 
ride." 

"And  will  you  spend  the  night?  "—Ipatoif 
asked  Vladimir  Sergyeitch. 

210 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

"  Really,  I  don't  know.  .  .  However,  if  I  do 
not  incommode  you  .  .  .  ." 

"  Not  in  the  least,  I  assure  you;  I  will  imme- 
diately order  a  chamber  to  be  prepared  for  you." 

"  But  it  is  nice  to  ride  by  moonlight," — began 
Nadezhda  Alexyeevna,  as  soon  as  candles  were 
brought,  tea  was  served,  and  Ipatoif  and  Egor 
Kapitonitch  had  sat  down  to  play  preference 
together,  while  The  Folding  Soul  seated  himself 
silently  beside  them: — "especially  through  the 
forest,  between  the  walnut-trees.  It  is  both  terri- 
fying and  agreeable,  and  what  a  strange  play 
of  light  and  shade  there  is — it  always  seems  as 
though  some  one  were  stealing  up  behind  you, 
or  in  front  of  you.  .  .  ." 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  smirked  condescendingly. 

"And  here  's  another  thing," — she  went  on; 
— "  have  you  ever  happened  to  sit  beside  the 
forest  on  a  warm,  dark,  tranquil  night?  At  such 
times  it  always  seems  to  me  as  though  two  per- 
sons were  hotly  disputing  in  an  almost  inaudible 
whisper,  behind  me,  close  at  my  very  ear." 

"  That  is  the  blood  beating," — said  Ipatoff. 

"  You  describe  in  a  very  poetical  way," — re- 
marked Vladimir  Sergyeitch.  Nadezhda  Alex- 
yeevna glanced  at  him. 

"  Do  you  think  so?  ...  In  that  case,  my  de- 
scription would  not  please  Masha." 

"  Why?  Is  not  Marya  Paylovna  fond  of 
poetry?  " 

211 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

"  No ;  she  thinks  all  that  sort  of  thing  is  made 
up — is  all  false;  and  she  does  not  like  that." 

"A  strange  reproach!" — exclaimed  Vladimir 
Sergyeitch.  "Made  up!  How  could  it  be  other- 
wise?   But,  after  all,  what  are  composers  for?  " 

"  Well,  there,  that  's  exactly  the  point ;  but 
I  am  sure  you  cannot  be  fond  of  poetry." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  love  good  verses,  when 
they  really  are  good  and  melodious,  and— how 
shall  I  say  it? — when  they  present  ideas, 
thoughts.  ..." 

Marya  Pavlovna  rose. 

Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  turned  swiftly  toward 
her. 

"  Whither  art  thou  going,  Masha?  " 

"  To  put  the  children  to  bed.  It  is  almost  nine 
o'clock." 

"  But  cannot  they  go  to  bed  without  thee?  " 

But  Marya  Pavlovna  took  the  children  by  the 
hand  and  went  away  with  them. 

"  She  is  out  of  sorts  to-day," — remarked  Na- 
dezhda Alexyeevna;— "  and  I  know  why,"— she 
added  in  an  undertone.  — "  But  it  will  pass  off." 

"  Allow  me  to  inquire,"— began  Vladimir  Ser- 
gyeitch,—" where  you  intend  to  spend  the  win- 
ter?" 

"  Perhaps  here,  perhaps  in  Petersburg.  It 
seems  to  me  that  I  shall  be  bored  in  Petersburg." 

"  In  Petersburg!  Good  gracious!  How  is  that 
possible? " 

212 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

And  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  began  to  describe  all 
the  comforts,  advantages,  and  charm  of  life  in 
our  capital.  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  listened  to 
him  with  attention,  never  taking  her  eyes  from 
him.  She  seemed  to  be  committing  his  features 
to  memory,  and  laughed  to  herself  from  time  to 
time. 

"  I  see  that  you  are  very  eloquent,"— she  said 
at  last.  —  "  I  shall  be  obliged  to  spend  the  winter 
in  Petersburg." 

"  You  will  not  repent  of  it,"— remarked  Vla- 
dimir Sergyeitch. 

"  I  never  repent  of  anything;  it  is  not  worth 
the  bother.  If  you  have  perpetrated  a  blunder, 
try  to  forget  it  as  speedily  as  possible — that  's 
all." 

"  Allow  me  to  ask," — began  Vladimir  Sergye- 
itch, after  a  brief  pause,  and  in  the  French  lan- 
guage;—"have  you  known  Marya  Pavlovna 
long?  " 

"  Allow  me  to  ask,"— retorted  Nadezhda  Alex- 
yeevna, with  a  swift  laugh;—"  wh}^  you  have  put 
precisely  that  question  to  me  in  French? " 

"  Because  ....  for  no  particular  reason.  .  ,  ." 

Again  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  laughed. 

"  No ;  I  have  not  known  her  very  long.  But 
she  is  a  remarkable  girl,  is  n't  she?  " 

"  She  is  very  original," — said  Vladimir  Ser- 
gyeitch, through  his  teeth. 

"  And  in  your  mouth— in  the  mouth  of  posi- 
213 


THE  REGION   OF  DEAD   CALM 

tive  persons — does  that  constitute  praise?  I  do 
not  think  so.  Perhaps  I  seem  original  to  you, 
also?  But,"— she  added,  rising  from  her  seat  and 
casting  a  glance  through  the  window,—"  the 
moon  must  have  risen;  that  is  its  light  on  the 
poplars.  It  is  time  to  depart.  ...  I  will  go 
and  give  order  that  Little  Beauty  shall  be 
saddled." 

"  He  is  already  saddled,  ma'am,"— said  Na- 
dezhda  Alexyeevna's  groom,  stepping  out  from 
the  shadow  in  the  garden  into  a  band  of  light 
which  fell  on  the  terrace. 

"  Ah!  Well,  that  's  very  good,  indeed!  Ma- 
sha,  where  art  thou?  Come  and  bid  me  good- 
bye." 

Marya  Pavlovna  made  her  appearance  from 
the  adjoining  room.  The  men  rose  from  the  card- 
table. 

"  So  you  are  going  already? " — inquired  Ipa- 
tofF. 

"  I  am ;  it  is  high  time." 

She  approached  the  door  leading  into  the  gar- 
den. 

"What  a  night!"— she  exclaimed.  — "  Come 
here ;  hold  out  your  face  to  it ;  do  you  feel  how  it 
seems  to  breathe  upon  you  ?  And  what  fragrance ! 
all  the  flowers  have  waked  up  now.  They  have 
waked  up — and  we  are  preparing  to  go  to  sleep. 
....  All,  by  the  way,  Masha,"— she  added:— 
"  I  have  told  Vladimir  Sergyeitch,  you  know, 

214 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD   CALM 

that  thou  art  not  fond  of  poetry.    And  now,  fare- 
well .  .  .  yonder  comes  my  horse.  .  .  ." 

And  she  ran  briskly  down  the  steps  of  the  ter- 
race, swung  herself  lightly  into  the  saddle,  said, 
"  Good-bye  until  to-morrow!  "—and  lashing  her 
horse  on  the  neck  with  her  riding-switch,  she  gal- 
loped off  in  the  direction  of  the  dam.  .  .  .  The 
groom  set  off  at  a  trot  after  her. 

All  gazed  after  her.  .  .  . 

"  Until  to-morrow!  "—her  voice  rang  out  once 
more  from  behind  the  poplars. 

The  hoof -beats  were  still  audible  for  a  long 
time  in  the  silence  of  the  summer  night.  At  last, 
Ipatoff  proposed  that  they  should  go  into  the 
house  again. 

"  It  really  is  very  nice  out  of  doors,"— he  said; 
— "  but  we  must  finish  our  game." 

All  obeyed  him.  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  began 
to  question  Marya  Pavlovna  as  to  why  she  did  not 
like  poetry. 

"  Verses  do  not  please  me,"— she  returned, 
with  apparent  reluctance. 

"  But  perhaps  you  have  not  read  many 
verses  ? " 

"  I  have  not  read  them  myself,  but  I  have  had 
them  read  to  me." 

"  And  is  it  possible  that  they  did  not  please 
you?" 

"  No ;  none  of  them." 

"  Not  even  Pushkin's  verses?  '* 
215 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

"  Not  even  Pushkin's." 

"  Why? " 

Marya  Pavlovna  made  no  answer ;  but  Ipatoff , 
twisting  round  across  the  back  of  his  chair,  re- 
marked, with  a  good-natured  laugh,  that  she  not 
only  did  not  like  verses,  but  sugar  also,  and,  in 
general,  could  not  endure  anything  sweet. 

"But,  surely,  there  are  verses  which  are  not 
sweet,"— retorted  Vladimir  Sergyeitch. 

"  For  example?  "—Marya  Pavlovna  asked 
him. 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  scratched  behind  his  ear. 
....  He  himself  knew  very  few  verses  by  heart, 
especially  of  the  sort  which  were  not  sweet. 

"Why,  here  now,"— he  exclaimed  at  last;— 
"do  you  know  Pushkin's  *  The  Upas-Tree'?* 
No?  That  poem  cannot  possibly  be  called 
sweet." 

"  Recite  it,"— said  Marya  Pavlovna,  dropping 
her  eyes. 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  first  stared  at  the  ceiling, 
frowned,  mumbled  something  to  himself,  and  at 
last  recited  "  The  Upas-Tree." 

After  the  first  four  lines,  Marya  Pavlovna 
slowly  raised  her  eyes,  and  when  Vladimir  Ser- 
gyeitch ended,  she  said,  with  equal  slowness: 

^  The  poem,  after  describing  the  deadly  qualities  of  the  upas-tree, 
narrates  how  a  potentate  sent  one  of  his  slaves  to  bring  hira  flowers 
from  it.  The  slave,  thoroughly  aware  of  his  danger,  fulfilled  his 
sovereign's  behest,  returned  with  branches  of  the  tree,  and  dropped 
dead.  — Tbanslatoe. 

™.       216 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

"  Please  recite  it  again." 

"  So  these  verses  do  please  you?  "—asked  Vla- 
dimir Sergyeitch. 

"  Recite  it  again." 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  repeated  *'  The  Upas- 
Tree."  Marya  Pavlovna  rose,  went  out  into  the 
next  room,  and  returned  with  a  sheet  of  paper, 
an  inkstand  and  a  pen. 

"  Please  write  that  down  for  me," — she  said  to 
Vladimir  Sergyeitch. 

"  Certainly;  with  pleasure,"— he  repHed,  begin- 
ning to  write. — "  But  I  must  confess  that  I  am 
puzzled  to  know  why  these  verses  have  pleased 
you  so.  I  recited  them  simply  to  prove  to  you 
that  not  all  verses  are  sweet." 

"  So  am  I!  "—exclaimed  Ipatoff.— "  What  do 
you  think  of  those  verses,  Ivan  flitch? " 

Ivan  Ilitch,  according  to  his  wont,  merely 
glanced  at  Ipatoff,  but  did  not  utter  a  word. 

"  Here,  ma'am, — I  have  finished," — said  Vla- 
dimir Sergyeitch,  as  he  placed  an  interrogation- 
point  at  the  end  of  the  last  line. 

Marya  Pavlovna  thanked  him,  and  carried  the 
written  sheet  off  to  her  own  room. 

Half  an  hour  later  supper  was  served,  and  an 
hour  later  all  the  guests  dispersed  to  their  rooms. 
Vladimir  Sergyeitch  had  repeatedly  addressed 
Marya  Pavlovna;  but  it  was  difficult  to  conduct 
a  conversation  with  her,  and  his  anecdotes  did 
not  seem  to  interest  her  greatly.     He  probably 

217 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

would  have  fallen  asleep  as  soon  as  he  got  into 
bed  had  he  not  been  hindered  by  his  neighbour, 
Egor  Kapitonitch.  Matryona  Markovna's  hus- 
band, after  he  was  fully  undressed  and  had  got 
into  bed,  talked  for  a  very  long  time  with  his 
servant,  and  kept  bestowing  reprimands  on  him. 
Every  word  he  uttered  was  perfectly  audible  to 
Vladimir  Sergyeitch:  only  a  thin  partition  sep- 
arated them. 

"  Hold  the  candle  in  front  of  thy  breast," — 
said  Egor  Kapitonitch,  in  a  querulous  voice; — 
"  hold  it  so  that  I  can  see  thy  face.  Thou  hast 
aged  me,  aged  me,  thou  conscienceless  man — hast 
aged  me  completely." 

"  But,  for  mercy's  sake,  Egor  Kapitonitch, 
how  have  I  aged  you? " — the  servant's  dull  and 
sleepy  voice  made  itself  heard. 

"  How?  I  '11  tell  thee  how.  How  many  times 
have  I  said  to  thee :  '  Mitka,'  I  have  said  to  thee, 
'  when  thou  goest  a-visiting  with  me,  always  take 
two  garments  of  each  sort,  especially '  .  .  .  .  hold 
the  candle  in  front  of  thy  breast .  .  .  .  '  especially 
underwear.'  And  what  hast  thou  done  to  me 
to-day?" 

"  What,  sir? " 

"  '  What,  sir? '  What  am  I  to  put  on  to-mor- 
row?" 

"  Why,  the  same  things  you  wore  to-day,  sir." 

"  Thou  hast  aged  me,  malefactor,  aged  me.  I 
was  almost  beside  myself  with  the  heat  to-day, 

218 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

as  it  was.  Hold  the  candle  in  front  of  thy  breast, 
I  tell  thee,  and  don't  sleep  when  thy  master  is 
talking  to  thee." 

"  Well,  but  Matryona  Markovna  said,  sir, 
'  That  's  enough.  Why  do  you  always  take  such 
a  mass  of  things  with  you?  They  only  get  worn 
out  for  nothing.'  " 

"  Matryona  Markovna  ....  Is  it  a  woman's 
business,  pray,  to  enter  into  that?  You  have 
aged  me.  Okh,  you  have  made  me  old  before  my 
time!" 

"  Yes ;  and  Yakhim  said  the  same  thing,  sir." 

"  What  's  that  thou  saidst?  " 

"  I  say,  Yakhim  said  the  same  thing,  sir." 

"Yakhim!  Yakhim!  "—repeated  Egor  Kapi- 
tonitch,  reproachfully.— "  Ekh,  you  have  aged 
me,  ye  accursed,  and  don't  even  know  how  to 
speak  Russian  intelligibly.  Yakhim !  Who  's  Ya- 
khim I  Efrim,— well,  that  might  be  allowed  to 
pass,  it  is  permissible  to  say  that;  because  the 
genuine  Greek  name  is  Evthimius,  dost  under- 
stand me?  .  .  .  Hold  the  candle  in  front  of  thy 
breast.  .  .  .  So,  for  the  sake  of  brevity,  thou 
may  est  say  Efrim,  if  thou  wilt,  but  not  Yakhim 
by  any  manner  of  means.  Yakhim !  "  ^  added 
Egor  Kapitonitch,  emphasising  the  syllable  Ya. 
— "  You  have  aged  me,  ye  malefactors.  Hold 
the  candle  in  front  of  thy  breast!  " 

And  for  a  long  time,  Egor  Kapitonitch  con- 

^It  should  be  Akim,  popular  for  lakfntbos.  Hyacinth.— Translator. 

219 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

tinued  to  berate  his  servant,  in  spite  of  sighs, 
coughs,  and  other  tokens  of  impatience  on  the 
part  of  Vladimir  Sergyeitch.  .  .  . 

At  last  he  dismissed  his  Mitka,  and  fell  asleep ; 
but  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  was  no  better  off  for 
that:  Egor  Kapitonitch  snored  so  mightily  and 
in  so  deep  a  voice,  with  such  playful  transitions 
from  high  tones  to  the  very  lowest,  with  such 
accompanying  whistlings,  and  even  snappings, 
that  it  seemed  as  though  the  very  partition  were 
shaking  in  response  to  him;  poor  Vladimir 
Sergyeitch  almost  wept.  It  was  very  stifling 
in  the  chamber  which  had  been  allotted  to  him, 
and  the  feather-bed  whereon  he  was  lying 
embraced  his  whole  body  in  a  sort  of  crawling 
heat. 

At  last,  in  despair,  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  rose, 
opened  the  window,  and  began  with  avidity  to 
inhale  the  nocturnal  freshness.  The  window 
looked  out  on  the  park.  It  was  light  overhead, 
the  round  face  of  the  full  moon  was  now  clearly 
reflected  in  the  pond,  and  stretched  itself  out  in 
a  long,  golden  sheaf  of  slowly  transfused  span- 
gles. On  one  of  the  paths  Vladimir  Sergyeitch 
espied  a  figure  in  woman's  garb;  he  looked 
more  intently;  it  was  Marya  Pavlovna;  in  the 
moonlight  her  face  seemed  pale.  She  stood 
motionless,  and  suddenly  began  to  speak.  .  .  . 
Vladimir  Sergyeitch  cautiously  put  out  his 
head.  .  .  . 

220 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

"  But  a  man — with  glance  imperious — 
Sent  a  man  to  the  Upas-tree  .   .   .    .'"'' 

reached  his  ear.  .  .  . 

"  Come,"— he  thought,—"  the  verses  must 
have  taken  effect.  .  .  ." 

And  he  began  to  listen  with  redoubled  atten- 
tion. .  .  .  But  Marya  Pavlovna  speedily  fell  si- 
lent, and  turned  her  face  more  directly  toward 
him;  he  could  distinguish  her  large,  dark  eyes, 
her  severe  brows  and  lips.  .  .  . 

Suddenly,  she  started,  wheeled  round,  entered 
the  shadow  cast  by  a  dense  wall  of  lofty  acacias, 
and  disappeared.  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  stood  for 
a  considerable  time  at  the  window,  then  got  into 
bed  again,  but  did  not  fall  asleep  very  soon. 

"  A  strange  being,"— he  thought,  as  he  tossed 
from  side  to  side;—"  and  yet  they  say  that  there 
is  nothing  particular  in  the  provinces.  .  .  .  The 
idea!  A  strange  being!  I  shall  ask  her  to-mor- 
row what  she  was  doing  in  the  park." 

And  Egor  Kapitonitch  continued  to  snore  as 
before. 

Ill 

On  the  following  morning  Vladimir  Sergyeitch 
awoke  quite  late,  and  immediately  after  the  gen- 
eral tea  and  breakfast  in  the  dining-room,  drove 
off  home  to  finish  his  business  on  his  estate,  in 
spite  of  all  old  Ipatoff's  attempts  to  detain  him. 

221 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

Marya  Pavlovna  also  was  present  at  the  tea ;  but 
Vladimir  Sergyeitch  did  not  consider  it  neces- 
sary to  question  her  concerning  her  late  stroll  of 
the  night  before;  he  was  one  of  the  people  who 
find  it  difficult  to  surrender  themselves  for  two 
days  in  succession  to  any  unusual  thoughts  and 
assumptions  whatsoever.  He  would  have  been 
obliged  to  discuss  verses,  and  the  so-called  "  poet- 
ical "  mood  wearied  him  very  quickly.  He  spent 
the  whole  day  until  dinner  in  the  fields,  ate  with 
great  appetite,  dozed  off,  and  when  he  woke  up, 
tried  to  take  up  the  clerk's  accounts;  but  be- 
fore he  had  finished  the  first  page,  he  ordered  his 
tarantas  to  be  harnessed,  and  set  off  for  IpatofiF's. 
Evidently,  even  positive  people  do  not  bear  about 
in  their  breasts  hearts  of  stone,  and  they  are  no 
more  fond  of  being  bored  than  other  plain  mor- 
tals. 

As  he  drove  upon  the  dam  he  heard  voices  and 
the  sound  of  music.  They  were  singing  Rus- 
sian ballads  in  chorus  in  IpatofF's  house.  He 
found  the  whole  company  which  he  had  left  in 
the  morning  on  the  terrace;  all,  Nadezhda  Ale- 
xyeevna  among  the  rest,  were  sitting  in  a  circle 
around  a  man  of  two-and-thirty — a  swarthy- 
skinned,  black-eyed,  black -haired  man  in  a  vel- 
vet jacket,  with  a  scarlet  kerchief  carelessly 
knotted  about  his  neck,  and  a  guitar  in  his  hands. 
This  was  Piotr  Alexyeevitch  Veretyefi",  brother 
of  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna.    On  catching  sight  of 

222 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch,  old  IpatoiF  advanced  to 
meet  him  with  a  joyful  cry,  led  him  up  to  Vere- 
tyeff,  and  introduced  them  to  each  other.  After 
exchanging  the  customary  greetings  with  his  new 
acquaintance,  Astakhoff  made  a  respectful  bow 
to  the  latter's  sister. 

"  We  're  singing  songs  in  country  fashion, 
Vladimir  Sergyeitch," — began  Ipatoff,  and 
pointing  to  VeretyefF  he  added: — "  Piotr  Ale- 
xyeitch  is  our  leader, — and  what  a  leader!  Just 
you  listen  to  him!  " 

"  This  is  very  pleasant,"— replied  Vladimir 
Sergyeitch. 

"  Will  not  you  join  the  choir? "— Nadezhda 
Alexyeevna  asked  him. 

"  I  should  be  heartily  glad  to  do  so,  but  I  have 
no  voice." 

"  That  does  n't  matter!  See,  Egor  Kapito- 
nitch  is  singing,  and  I  'm  singing.  All  you  have 
to  do  is  to  chime  in.  Pray,  sit  down ;  and  do  thou 
strike  up,  my  dear  fellow!  " 

"  What  song  shall  we  sing  now?  " — said  Vere- 
tyefF, thrumming  the  guitar ;  and  suddenly  stop- 
ping short,  he  looked  at  Marya  Pavlovna,  who 
was  sitting  by  his  side. — "  I  think  it  is  your  turn 
now," — he  said  to  her. 

"  No;  do  you  sing,"— replied  Marj^a  Pavlovna. 

"Here  's  a  song  now:  '  Adown  dear  Mother 
Volga  ' '" — said  Vladimir  Sergyeitch,  with  im- 
portance. 

223 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

"  No,  we  will  save  that  up  for  the  last,"— re- 
plied VeretyefF,  and  tinkling  the  strings  of  the 
guitar,  he  struck  up,  in  slow  measure,  "  The  sun 
is  setting." 

He  sang  splendidly,  dashingly,  and  blithely. 
His  manly  face,  already  expressive,  became  still 
more  animated  when  he  sang;  now  and  then  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  suddenly  pressed  the 
strings  with  his  palm,  raised  his  arm,  shook  his 
curls,  and  darted  a  falcon-like  look  around  him. 
More  than  once  in  Moscow  he  had  seen  the  fa- 
mous Ilya,  and  he  imitated  him.  The  chorus 
chimed  in  lustily.  Marya  Pavlovna's  voice  sep- 
arated itself  in  a  melodious  flood  from  the  other 
voices;  it  seemed  to  drag  them  after  it;  but  she 
would  not  sing  alone,  and  Veretyeff  remained  the 
leader  to  the  end. 

They  sang  a  great  many  other  songs.  .  .  . 

In  the  meantime,  along  with  the  evening 
shadows,  a  thunder-storm  drew  on.  From  noon- 
day it  had  been  steaming  hot,  and  thunder  had 
kept  rumbling  in  the  distance;  but  now  a  broad 
thunder-cloud,  which  had  long  lain  like  a  leaden 
pall  on  the  very  rim  of  the  horizon,  began  to  in- 
crease and  show  itself  above  the  crests  of  the 
trees,  the  stifling  air  began  to  quiver  more  dis- 
tinctly, shaken  more  and  more  violently  by  the 
approaching  storm ;  the  wind  rose,  rustled  the  fo- 
liage abruptly,  died  into  silence,  again  made  a 
prolonged  clamour,  and  began  to  roar;  a  surly 

224 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

gloom  flitted  over  the  earth,  swiftly  dispelling 
the  last  reflection  of  the  sunset  glow ;  dense  clouds 
suddenly  floated  up,  as  though  rending  them- 
selves free,  and  sailed  across  the  sky;  a  fine  rain 
began  to  patter  down,  the  lightning  flashed  in 
a  red  flame,  and  the  thunder  rumbled  heavily  and 
angrily. 

"  Let  us  go,"— said  old  Ipatoff,— "  or  we  shall 
be  drenched." 

All  rose. 

"Directly!" — exclaimed  Piotr  Alexyeitch. — 
"  One  more  song,  the  last.    Listen: 

"  Akh,  thou  house,  thou  house  of  mine, 
Thou  new  house  of  mine  .    .    .    . ' ' 

he  struck  up  in  a  loud  voice,  briskly  striking  the 
strings  of  the  guitar  with  his  whole  hand.  "  My 
new  house  of  maple-wood,"  joined  in  the  chorus, 
as  though  reluctantly  carried  away.  Almost  at 
the  same  moment,  the  rain  began  to  beat  down  in 
streams ;  but  Veretyefl"  sang  "  My  house  "  to  the 
end.  From  time  to  time,  drowned  by  the  claps  of 
thunder,  the  dashing  ballad  seemed  more  dash- 
ing than  ever  beneath  the  noisy  rattle  and  gur- 
gling of  the  rain.  At  last  the  final  detonation 
of  the  chorus  rang  out— and  the  whole  company 
ran,  laughing,  into  the  drawing-room.  Loudest 
of  all  laughed  the  little  girls,  Ipatofl"s  daughters, 
as  they  shook  the  rain-drops  from  their  frocks. 
But,  by  way  of  precaution,  IpatofF  closed  the 

225 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

window,  and  locked  the  door;  and  Egor  Kapi- 
tonitch  lauded  him,  remarking  that  Matryona 
Markovna  also  always  gave  orders  to  shut  up 
whenever  there  was  a  thunder-storm,  because  elec- 
tricity is  more  capable  of  acting  in  an  empty 
space.  BodryakofF  looked  him  straight  in  the 
face,  stepped  aside,  and  overturned  a  chair. 
Such  trifling  mishaps  were  constantly  happening 
to  him. 

The  thunder-storm  passed  over  very  soon.  The 
doors  and  windows  were  opened  again,  and  the 
rooms  were  filled  with  moist  fragrance.  Tea  was 
brought.  After  tea  the  old  men  sat  down  to 
cards  again.  Ivan  tlitch  joined  them,  as  usual. 
Vladimir  Sergyeitch  was  about  to  go  to  Marya 
Pavlovna,  who  was  sitting  at  the  window  with 
Veretyefl*;  but  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  called 
him  to  her,  and  immediately  entered  into  a 
fervent  discussion  with  him  about  Petersburg 
and  Petersburg  life.  She  attacked  it;  Vladimir 
Sergyeitch  began  to  defend  it.  Nadezhda  Ale- 
xyeevna appeared  to  be  trying  to  keep  him  by 
her  side. 

"  What  are  you  wrangling  about?  "—in- 
quired VeretyefP,  rising  and  approaching  them. 

He  swayed  lazily  from  side  to  side  as  he 
walked;  in  all  his  movements  there  was  percep- 
tible something  which  was  not  exactly  careless- 
ness, nor  yet  exactly  fatigue. 

"  Still  about  Petersburg,"— replied  Nadezhda 
226 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

Alexyeevna. — "  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  cannot  suf- 
ficiently praise  it." 

"  'T  is  a  fine  town,"— remarked  Veretyeff ; — 
"  but,  in  my  opinion,  it  is  nice  everywhere.  By 
Heaven,  it  is.  If  one  only  has  two  or  three 
women,  and— pardon  my  frankness— wine,  a 
man  really  has  nothing  left  to  wish  for." 

"  You  surprise  me,"— retorted  Vladimir  Ser- 
gyeitch. "Can  it  be  possible  that  you  are  really 
of  one  opinion,  that  there  does  not  exist  for  the 
cultured  man  .  .  .  ." 

"Perhaps  ....  in  fact  ....  I  agree  with 
you," — interrupted  Veretyeff",  who,  notwith- 
standing all  his  courtesy,  had  a  habit  of  not  lis- 
tening to  the  end  of  retorts; — "  but  that  's  not 
in  my  line;  I  'm  not  a  philosopher." 

"  Neither  am  I  a  philosopher,"— replied  Vla- 
dimir Sergyeitch; — "  and  I  have  not  the  slightest 
desire  to  be  one ;  but  here  it  is  a  question  of  some- 
thing entirely  diff*erent." 

Veretyeff"  cast  an  abstracted  glance  at  his  sis- 
ter, and  she,  with  a  faint  laugh,  bent  toward  him, 
and  whispered  in  a  low  voice : 

"  Petrusha,  my  dear,  imitate  Egor  Kapito- 
nitch  for  us,  please." 

Veretyeff's  face  instantly  changed,  and,  Hea- 
ven knows  by  what  miracle,  became  remarkably 
like  the  face  of  Egor  Kapitonitch,  although 
the  features  of  the  two  faces  had  absolutely  no- 
thing in  common,  and  Veretyeff  himself  barely 

227 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD   CALM 

wrinkled  up  his  nose  and  pulled  down  the  corners 
of  his  lips. 

"  Of  course," — he  began  to  whisper,  in  a  voice 
which  was  the  exact  counterpart  of  Egor  Kapi- 
tonitch's, — "  Matryona  Markovna  is  a  severe 
lady  on  the  score  of  manners;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  she  is  a  model  wife.  It  is  true  that  no 
matter  what  I  may  have  said  .  .  .  ." 

"  The  BiriiilofF  girls  know  it  all," — put  in 
Nadezhda  Alexyeevna,  hardly  restraining  her 
laughter. 

"  Everything  is  known  on  the  following  day," 
— replied  VeretyefF,  with  such  a  comical  grim- 
ace, with  such  a  perturbed  sidelong  glance,  that 
even  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  burst  out  laughing. 

"  I  see  that  you  possess  great  talent  for  mimi- 
cry,"— he  remarked. 

Veretyeff  passed  his  hand  over  his  face,  his 
features  resumed  their  ordinary  expression,  while 
Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  exclaimed : 

"Oh,  yes!  he  can  mimic  any  one  whom  he 
wishes.  .  .  .  He  's  a  master  hand  at  that." 

"  And  would  you  be  able  to  imitate  me,  for 
example?  " — inquired  Vladimir  Sergyeitch. 

"I  should  think  so!  "—returned  Nadezhda 
Alexyeevna: — "  of  course." 

"  Akli,  pray  do  me  the  favour  to  represent 
me,"— said  Astakhoff,  turning  to  Veretyeff.— 
"  I  beg  that  you  will  not  stand  on  ceremony." 

"  And  so  you  too  have  believed  her?" — replied 
VeretyefF,  slightly  screwing  up  one  eye,  and  im- 

228 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

parting  to  his  voice  the  sound  of  AstakhoiF's 
voice,  but  so  cautiously  and  slightly  that  only 
Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  noticed  it,  and  bit  her  lips. 
— "Please  do  not  believe  her;  she  will  tell  you 
other  untrue  things  about  me." 

"And  if  you  only  knew  what  an  actor  he  is!" 
— pursued  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna: — "he  plays 
every  conceivable  sort  of  a  part.  And  so  splen- 
didly !  He  is  our  stage-manager,  and  our  promp- 
ter, and  everything  you  like.  It  's  a  pity  that 
you  are  going  away  so  soon." 

"  Sister,  thy  partiality  blinds  thee,"— re- 
marked VeretyeiF,  in  a  pompous  tone,  but  still 
with  the  same  touch  of  Astakhoff.— "  What  will 
Mr.  Astakhoff  think  of  thee?— He  will  regard 
thee  as  a  rustic." 

"  No,  indeed,"— Vladimir  Sergj^eitch  was  be- 
ginning  

"  See  here,  Petriisha,"— interposed  Nadezhda 
Alexyeevna;— "  please  show  us  how  a  drunken 
man  is  utterly  unable  to  get  his  handkerchief  out 
of  his  pocket ;  or  no :  show  us,  rather,  how  a  boy 
catches  a  fly  on  the  window,  and  how  it  buzzes 
under  his  fingers." 

"Thou  art  a  regular  child,"— replied  Vere- 
tyefF. 

Nevertheless  he  rose,  and  stepping  to  the 
window,  beside  which  Marya  Pavlovna  was 
sitting,  he  began  to  pass  his  hand  across  the 
panes,  and  represent  how  a  small  boy  catches 
a  fly. 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

The  accuracy  with  which  he  imitated  its  pitiful 
squeak  was  really  amazing.  It  seemed  as  though 
a  live  fly  were  actually  struggling  under  his  fin- 
gers. Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  burst  out  laugh- 
ing, and  gradually  every  one  in  the  room  got  to 
laughing.  Marya  Pavlovna's  face  alone  under- 
went no  change,  not  even  her  lips  quivered.  She 
sat  with  downcast  eyes,  but  raised  them  at  last, 
and  casting  a  serious  glance  at  VeretyefF,  she 
muttered  through  her  set  teeth : 

"  What  possesses  you  to  make  a  clown  of  your- 
self?" 

VeretyeiF  instantly  turned  away  from  the  win- 
dow, and,  after  standing  still  for  a  moment  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  he  went  out  on  the  terrace, 
and  thence  into  the  garden,  which  had  already 
grown  perfectly  dark. 

"How  amusing  that  Piotr  Alexyeitch  is!" — 
exclaimed  Egor  Kapitonitch,  slapping  down  the 
seven  of  trumps  with  a  flourish  on  some  one  else's 
ace. — "  Really,  he  's  very  amusing!  " 

Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  rose,  and  hastily  ap- 
proaching Marya  Pavlovna,  asked  her  in  an  un- 
dertone : 

"  What  didst  thou  say  to  my  brother? " 
-    "  Nothing,"— replied  the  other. 

"What  dost  thou  mean  by  'nothing'?  Im- 
possible." 

And  after  waiting  a  little,  Nadezhda  Alexye- 
evna said:  "  Come!  "—took  Marya  Pavlovna  by 

230 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

the  hand,  forced  her  to  rise,  and  went  off  with 
her  into  the  garden. 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  gazed  after  the  two 
young  girls  not  without  perplexity.  But  they 
were  not  absent  long;  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later 
they  returned,  and  Piotr  Alexyeitch  entered  the 
room  with  them. 

"What  a  splendid  night!"  exclaimed  Na- 
dezhda  Alexyeevna,  as  she  entered. — "  How 
beautiful  it  is  in  the  garden!  " 

"  Akh,  yes.  By  the  way,"— said  Vladimir  Ser- 
gyeitch;— "  allow  me  to  inquire,  Mary  a  Pav- 
lovna,  whether  it  was  you  whom  I  saw  in  the 
garden  last  night?  " 

Marya  Pavlovna  gave  him  a  swift  look  straight 
in  the  eyes. 

"  Moreover,  so  far  as  I  could  make  out,  you 
were  declaiming  Pushkin's  '  The  Upas-Tree.'  " 

VeretyefF  frowned  slightly,  and  he  also  began 
to  stare  at  AstakhofF. 

"  It  really  was  I,"— said  Marya  Pavlovna; — 
"  only,  I  was  not  declaiming  anything;  I  never 
declaim." 

"  Perhaps  it  seemed  so  to  me,"— began  Vla- 
dimir Sergyeitch;— "  but  .  .  ." 

"  It  did  seem  so  to  you? " — remarked  Marya 
Pavlovna,  coldly. 

"  What  's  '  The  Upas-Tree  '?  "-inquired  Na- 
dezhda  Alexyeevna. 

"Why,  don't  you  know?  "—retorted  Asta- 
231 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

khoiF.  — "  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  remem- 
ber Pushkin's  verses :  '  On  the  unhealthy,  meagre 
soil'?" 

"  Somehow  I  don't  remember.  .  .  .  That  upas- 
tree  is  a  poisonous  tree,  is  n't  it?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Like  the  datura.  .  .  .  Dost  remember,  Masha, 
how  beautiful  the  datura  were  on  our  balcony,  in 
the  moonlight,  with  their  long,  white  blossoms? 
Dost  remember  what  fragrance  poured  from 
them, — so  sweet,  insinuating,  and  insidious?  " 

"An  insidious  fragrance!" — exclaimed  Vla- 
dimir Sergyeitch. 

"  Yes;  insidious.  What  are  you  surprised  at? 
They  say  it  is  dangerous,  but  it  is  attractive. 
Why  can  evil  attract?  Evil  should  not  be  beau- 
tiful." 

"Oh,  what  theories!"  —  remarked  Piotr 
Alexyeitch; — "  how  far  away  we  have  got  from 
verses!  " 

"  I  recited  those  verses  yesterday  evening  to 
Marya  Pavlovna,"  interposed  Vladimir  Sergye- 
itch;— "and  they  pleased  her  greatly." 

"Akh,  please  recite  them," — said  Nadezhda 
Alexyeevna. 

"  Certainly,  madam." 

And  AstakhofF  recited  "  The  Upas-Tree." 

"  Too  bombastic," — ejaculated  VeretyefF,  as 
though  against  his  will,  as  soon  as  Vladimir  Ser- 
gyeitch had  finished. 

232 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

"  The  poem  is  too  bombastic?  " 

"  No,  not  the  poem.  .  .  .  Excuse  me,  it  seems 
to  me  that  you  do  not  recite  with  sufficient  simpli- 
city. The  thing  speaks  for  itself;  however,  I 
may  be  mistaken." 

"  No,  thou  art  not  mistaken,"— said  Nadezhda 
Alexyeevna,  pausing  between  her  words. 

"  Oh,  yes;  that  is  a  matter  of  course!  In  thy 
eyes  I  am  a  genius,  an  extremely  gifted  man, 
who  knows  everything,  can  do  everything;  un- 
fortunately, he  is  overcome  with  laziness;  is  n't 
that  so?  " 

Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  merely  shook  her  head. 

"  I  shall  not  quarrel  with  you;  you  must  know 
best  about  that,"— remarked  Vladimir  Sergye- 
itch,  somewhat  sulkily.—"  That  's  not  in  my 
line." 

*'  I  made  a  mistake,  pardon  me," — ejaculated 
VeretyefF,  hastily. 

In  the  meantime,  the  game  of  cards  had  come 
to  an  end. 

"  Akh,  by  the  way,"— said  IpatoiF,  as  he  rose; 
— "  Vladimir  Sergyeitch,  one  of  the  local  landed 
proprietors,  a  neighbour,  a  very  fine  and  worthy 
man,  Akilin,  Gavrila  Stepanitch,  has  commis- 
sioned me  to  ask  you  whether  you  will  not  do 
him  the  honour  to  be  present  at  his  ball, — that  is, 
I  just  put  it  so,  for  beauty  of  style,  and  said 
'  ball,'  but  it  is  only  an  evening  party  with  danc- 
ing, quite  informal.    He  would  have  called  upon 

233 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

you  himself  without  fail,  only  he  was  afraid  of 
disturbing  you." 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  the  gentleman,"— re- 
turned Vladimir  Sergyeiteh; — "  but  it  is  impera- 
tively necessary  that  I  should  return  home.  .  .  ." 

"  Why— but  when  do  you  suppose  the  ball 
takes  place?  'T  is  to-morrow.  To-morrow  is 
Gavrila  Stepanitch's  Name-day.  One  day  more 
won't  matter,  and  how  much  pleasure  you  will 
give  him!  And  it  's  only  ten  versts  from  here. 
If  you  will  allow,  we  will  take  you  thither." 

"  Really,  I  don't  know,"— began  Vladimir 
Sergyeiteh. — "  And  are  you  going?  " 

"  The  whole  family!  And  Nadezhda  Alexye- 
evna  and  Piotr  Alexyeitch,— everybody  is 
going! " 

"  You  may  invite  me  on  the  spot  for  the  fifth 
quadrille,  if  you  like,"— remarked  Nadezhda 
Alexyeevna.— "  The  first  four  are  already  be- 
spoken." 

"  You  are  very  kind ;  and  are  you  already  en- 
gaged for  the  mazurka? " 

"I?  Let  me  think  ....  no,  I  think  I  am 
not." 

"  In  that  case,  if  you  will  be  so  kind,  I  should 
like  to  have  the  honour  .  .  .  ." 

"  That  means  that  you  will  go?  Very  good. 
Certainly." 

"Bravo!  "-exclaimed  IpatofF.-"  Well,  Vla- 
dimir Sergyeiteh,  you  have  put  us  under  an  ob- 

234 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

ligation.    Gavrilo  Stepanitch  will  simply  go  into 
raptures.    Is  n't  that  so,  Ivan  Ilitch?  " 

Ivan  Ilitch  would  have  preferred  to  hold  his 
peace,  according  to  his  wont,  but  thought  it  bet- 
ter to  utter  a  sound  of  approval. 

"  What  possessed  thee,"— said  Piotr  Alexye- 
itch  an  hour  later  to  his  sister,  as  he  sat  with  her 
in  a  light  two-wheeled  cart,  which  he  was  driv- 
ing himself, — "  what  possessed  thee  to  saddle 
thyself  with  that  sour-visaged  fellow  for  the 
mazurka? " 

"  I  have  reasons  of  my  own  for  that," — replied 
Nadezhda  Alexyeevna. 

"What  reasons?— permit  me  to  inquire." 

"  That  's  my  secret." 

"Oho!" 

And  with  his  whip  he  lightly  flicked  the 
horse,  which  was  beginning  to  prick  up  its 
ears,  snort,  and  shy.  It  was  frightened  by 
the  shadow  of  a  huge  willow  bush  wliich  fell 
across  the  road,  dimly  illuminated  by  the 
moon. 

"And  shalt  thou  dance  with  Masha?"— Na- 
dezhda Alexyeevna,  in  her  turn,  questioned  her 
brother. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  indifferently. 

"Yes!  yes!  "—repeated  Nadezhda  Alexye- 
evna, reproachfully. — "You  men," — she  added, 
after  a  brief  pause,—"  positively  do  not  deserve 
to  be  loved  by  nice  women." 

235 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

"  Dost  think  so?    Well,  and  that  sour-visaged 
Petersburger— does  he  deserve  it?  " 
"  Sooner  than  thou." 
"Really!" 
And  Piotr  Alexyeitch  recited,  with  a  sigh: 

•'  What  a  mission,  O  Creator, 
To  be the  brother  of  a  grown-up  sister! "" 

Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  burst  out  laughing. 

"  I  cause  thee  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  there  's 
no  denying  that.    I  have  a  commission  to  thee." 

"  Really? — I  had  n't  the  slightest  suspicion  of 
that." 

*'  I  'm  speaking  of  Masha." 

"  On  what  score?  " 

Nadezhda  Alexyeevna's  face  assumed  a  slight 
expression  of  pain. 

"  Thou  knowest  thyself," — she  said  softly. 

"  Ah,  I  understand!— What  's  to  be  done,  Na- 
dezhda Alexyeevna,  ma'am?  I  love  to  drink  with 
a  good  friend,  ma'am,  sinful  man  that  I  am; 
I  love  it,  ma'am." 

"  Stop,  brother,  please  don't  talk  like  that! .  .  . 
This  is  no  jesting  matter." 

"  Tram-tram-tam-poom !  "  —  muttered  Piotr 
Alexyeitch  through  his  teeth. 

"  It  is  thy  perdition,  and  thou  jestest.  .  .  ." 

"  The  farm-hand  is  sowing  the  grain,  his  wife 
does  not  agree  .  .  .  .'"' 

236 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

struck  up  Piotr  Alexyeitch  loudly,  slapped  the 
horse  with  the  reins,  and  it  dashed  onward  at  a 
brisk  trot. 

IV 

On  reaching  home  Veretyeif  did  not  undress,  and 
a  couple  of  hours  later,  when  the  flush  of  dawn 
was  just  colouring  the  sky,  he  was  no  longer  in 
the  house. 

Half-way  between  his  estate  and  Ipatoff's,  on 
the  very  brink  of  a  broad  ravine,  stood  a  small 
birch  grove.  The  young  trees  grew  very  close 
together,  and  no  axe  had  yet  touched  their  grace- 
ful trunks;  a  shadow  which  was  not  dense,  but 
continuous,  spread  from  the  tiny  leaves  on  the 
soft,  thin  grass,  all  mottled  with  the  golden  heads 
of  buttercups,^  the  white  dots  of  wood-campa- 
nula, and  the  tiny  deep-crimson  crosses  of  wild 
pinks.  The  recently-risen  sun  flooded  the  whole 
grove  with  a  powerful  though  not  brilliant  light ; 
dewdrops  glittered  everywhere,  while  here  and 
there  large  drops  kindled  and  glowed  red ;  every- 
thing exhaled  freshness,  life,  and  that  innocent 
triumph  of  the  first  moments  of  the  morning, 
when  everything  is  still  so  bright  and  still  so 
silent.  The  only  thing  audible  was  the  carolling 
voices  of  the  larks  above  the  distant  fields,  and 
in  the  grove  itself  two  or  three  small  birds  were 

^The  un poetical   Russian  name  is  "chicken-blindness"  (night- 
blindness).  —Translator. 

237 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

executing,  in  a  leisurely  manner,  their  brief  songs, 
and  then,  apparently,  listening  to  see  how  their 
performance  had  turned  out.  From  the  damp 
earth  arose  a  strong,  healthy  scent;  a  pure,  light 
breeze  fluttered  all  about  in  cool  gusts.  Morn- 
ing, glorious  morning,  breathed  forth  from 
everything— everything  looked  and  smiled  of  the 
morning,  like  the  rosy,  freshly-washed  face  of  a 
baby  who  has  just  waked  up. 

Not  far  from  the  ravine,  in  the  middle  of  a 
small  glade,  on  an  outspread  cloak,  sat  VeretyeiF. 
Marya  Pavlovna  was  standing  beside  him,  lean- 
ing against  a  birch-tree,  with  her  hands  clasped 
behind  her. 

Both  were  silent.  Marya  Pavlovna  was  gaz- 
ing fixedly  into  the  far  distance;  a  white  scarf 
had  slipped  from  her  head  to  her  shoulders,  the 
errant  breeze  was  stirring  and  lifting  the  ends 
of  her  hastily-knotted  hair.  Veretyeff  sat  bent 
over,  tapping  the  grass  with  a  small  branch. 

"  Well," — he  began  at  last, — "  are  you  angry 
with  me? " 

Marya  Pavlovna  made  no  reply. 

Veretyeff  darted  a  glance  at  her. 

"  Masha,  are  you  angry?  " — he  repeated. 

Marya  Pavlovna  scanned  him  with  a  swift 
glance  from  head  to  foot,  turned  slightly  away, 
and  said: 

"  Yes." 

238 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

"What  for?"— asked  VeretyefF,  and  flung 
away  his  branch. 

Again  Marya  Pavlovna  made  no  reply. 

"  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  you  have  a  right  to 
be  angry  with  me," — began  Veretyeff,  after  a 
brief  pause.  —  "  You  must  regard  me  as  a  man 
who  is  not  only  frivolous,  but  even  .  .  .  ." 

"  You  do  not  understand  me," — interrupted 
Marya  Pavlovna. — "  I  am  not  in  the  least  angry 
with  you  on  my  own  account." 

"  On  whose  account,  then?  " 

"  On  your  own." 

VeretyeiF  raised  his  head  and  laughed. 

"Ah!  I  understand!  "—he  said.— "  Again! 
again  the  thought  is  beginning  to  agitate  you: 
'  Why  don't  I  make  something  of  myself? '  Do 
you  know  what,  Masha,  you  are  a  wonderful  be- 
ing; by  Heaven,  you  are!  You  worry  so  much 
about  other  people  and  so  little  about  yourself. 
There  is  not  a  bit  of  egoism  in  you ;  really,  really 
there  is  n't.  There  's  no  other  girl  in  the  world 
like  you.  It 's  a  pity  about  one  thing :  I  decidedly 
am  not  worthy  of  your  affection ;  I  say  that  with- 
out jesting." 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  you.  You  feel  and  do 
nothing." — Again  Veretyeff*  laughed. 

"  Masha,  take  your  hand  from  behind  your 
back,  and  give  it  to  me,"— he  said,  with  insinu- 
ating aff*ection  in  his  voice. 

239 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

Marya  Pavlovna  merely  shrugged  her  shoul- 
ders. 

"  Give  me  your  beautiful,  honest  hand ;  I  want 
to  kiss  it  respectfully  and  tenderly.  Thus  does 
a  giddy-pated  scholar  kiss  the  hand  of  his  con- 
descending tutor." 

And  Veretyeff  reached  out  toward  Marya 
Pavlovna. 

"  Enough  of  that!  "—said  she.  "  You  are  al- 
ways laughing  and  jesting,  and  you  will  jest 
away  your  life  like  that." 

"  H'm!  jest  away  my  life!  A  new  expression! 
But  I  hope,  Marya  Pavlovna,  that  you  used  the 
verb  '  to  jest '  in  the  active  sense?  " 

Marya  Pavlovna  contracted  her  brows. 

"  Enough  of  that,  Veretyeff," — she  repeated. 

"  To  jest  away  life,"— went  on  Veretyeff,  half 
rising; — "but  you  are  imagining  me  as  worse 
than  I  am;  you  are  wasting  your  life  in  serious- 
ness. Do  you  know,  Masha,  you  remind  me  of  a 
scene  from  Pushkin's  '  Don  Juan.'  You  have 
not  read  Pushkin's  '  Don  Juan  '  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Yes,  I  had  forgotten,  you  see,  that  you  do 
not  read  verses. — In  that  poem  guests  come  to  a 
certain  Laura;  she  drives  them  all  away  and 
remains  alone  with  Carlos.  The  two  go  out  on 
the  balcony;  the  night  is  wonderful.  Laura  ad- 
mires, and  Carlos  suddenly  begins  to  demon- 
strate to  her  that  she  will  grow  old  in  course  of 

240 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM  ^ 

time.—'  Well,'  replies  Laura,  '  it  may  be  cold 
and  rainy  in  Paris  now,  but  here,  with  us,  "  the 
night  is  redolent  of  orange  and  of  laurel."  Why 
make  guesses  at  the  future  ? '  Look  around  you, 
Masha;  is  it  not  beautiful  here?  See  how  every- 
thing is  enjoying  life,  how  young  everything  is. 
And  are  n't  we  young  ourselves?  " 

VeretyefF  approached  Marya  Pavlovna;  she 
did  not  move  away  from  him,  but  she  did  not  turn 
her  head  toward  him. 

"Smile,  Masha," — he  went  on; — "only  with 
your  kind  smile,  not  with  your  usual  grin.  I 
love  your  kind  smile.  Raise  your  proud,  stern 
eyes. — What  ails  you?  You  turn  away.  Stretch 
out  your  hand  to  me,  at  least." 

"  Akh,  VeretyefF,"— began  Masha;-"  you 
know  that  I  do  not  understand  how  to  express 
myself.  You  have  told  me  about  that  Laura. 
But  she  was  a  woman,  you  see.  ...  A  woman 
may  be  pardoned  for  not  thinking  of  the  future." 

"  When  you  speak,  Masha,"— returned  Vere- 
tyefF,—  "you  blush  incessantly  with  self-love 
and  modesty:  the  blood  fairly  flows  in  a  crimson 
flood  into  your  cheeks.  I  'm  awfully  fond  of  that 
in  you." 

Marya  Pavlovna  looked  VeretyefF  straight  in 
the  eye. 

"  Farewell,"— she  said,  and  threw  her  scarf 
over  her  head. 

VeretyefF  held  her  back.     "  Enough,  enough. 

241 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

Stay!  " — he  cried. — "  Come,  why  are  you  going? 
Issue  your  commands !  Do  you  want  me  to  enter 
the  service,  to  become  an  agriculturist?  Do  you 
want  me  to  pubHsh  romances  with  accompani- 
ment for  the  guitar;  to  print  a  collection  of 
poems,  or  of  drawings;  to  busy  myself  with 
painting,  sculpture,  dancing  on  the  rope?  I  '11 
do  anything,  anything,  an}i;hing  you  command, 
if  only  you  will  be  satisfied  with  me!  Come, 
really  now,  Masha,  believe  me." 

Again  Marya  Pavlovna  looked  at  him. 

"  You  will  do  all  that  in  words  only,  not  in 
deeds.  You  declare  that  you  will  obey  me  .  .  .  ." 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"  You  obey,  but  how  many  times  have  I  begged 
you  .  .  .  ." 

"  What  about? " 

Marya  Pavlovna  hesitated. 

"  Not  to  drink  liquor," — she  said  at  last. 

VeretyefF  laughed. 

"Ekh,  Masha!  And  you  are  at  it,  too!  My 
sister  is  woriying  herself  to  death  over  that  also. 
But,  in  the  first  place,  I  'm  not  a  drunkard  at 
all;  and  in  the  second  place,  do  you  know  why 
I  drink?  Look  yonder,  at  that  swallow.  .  .  . 
Do  you  see  how  boldly  it  manages  its  tiny  body, 
—and  hurls  it  wherever  it  wishes?  Now  it  has 
soared  aloft,  now  it  has  darted  downward.  It  has 
even  piped  with  joy:  do  you  hear?  So  that  's 
why  I  drink,  Masha,  in  order  to  feel  those  same 

242 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

sensations  which  that  swallow  experiences.  .  .  . 
Hurl  yourself  whithersoever  you  will,  soar  where- 
soever you  take  a  fancy  .  .  .  ." 

"  But  to  what  end?  " — interrupted  Masha. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  What  is  one  to 
live  on  then? " 

"  But  is  n't  it  possible  to  get  along  without 
liquor? " 

"  No,  it  is  not;  we  are  all  damaged,  rumpled. 
There  's  passion  ....  it  produces  the  same 
effect.    That 's  why  I  love  you." 

"  Like  wine.  .  .  .  I  'm  much  obliged  to  you." 

"  No,  Masha,  I  do  not  love  j^ou  like  wine. 
Stay,  I  '11  prove  it  to  you  sometime, — when  we  are 
married,  say,  and  go  abroad  together.  Do  you 
know,  I  am  planning  in  advance  how  I  shall  lead 
you  in  front  of  the  Venus  of  JNIilo.  At  this 
point  it  will  be  appropriate  to  say: 

**  And  when  she  stands  with  serious  eyes 
Before  the  Chyprian  of  Milos — 
Twain  are  they,  and  the  marble  in  comparison 
Suffers,  it  would  seem,  affront 

"  What  makes  me  talk  constantly  in  poetry  to- 
day? It  must  be  that  this  morning  is  affecting 
me.  What  air !  'T  is  exactly  as  though  one  were 
quaffing  wine." 

"  Wine  again," — remarked  Marya  Pavlovna. 

*'  What  of  that!  A  morning  like  this,  and  you 
with  me,  and  not  feel  intoxicated !  '  With  serious 

243 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

eyes  .  .  .  .'  Yes," — pursued  Veretyeff,  gazing 
intently  at  Marya  Pavlovna, — "  that  is  so.  .  .  . 
For  I  remember,  I  have  beheld,  rarely,  but  yet 
I  have  beheld  these  dark,  magnificent  eyes,  I  have 
beheld  them  tender!  And  how  beautiful  they 
are  then!  Come,  don't  turn  away,  Masha; 
pray,  smile  at  least  ....  show  me  your  eyes 
merry,  at  all  events,  if  they  will  not  vouchsafe 
me  a  tender  glance." 

"  Stop,  Veretyeff,"— said  Marya  Pavlovna. 
— "  Release  me!    It  is  time  for  me  to  go  home." 

"  But  I  'm  going  to  make  you  laugh," — inter- 
posed Veretyeff;  "  by  Heaven,  I  will  make  you 
laugh.    Eh,  by  the  way,  yonder  runs  a  hare.  .  .  ." 

"  Where?  "—asked  Marya  Pavlovna. 

"  Yonder,  beyond  the  ravine,  across  the  field  of 
oats.  Some  one  must  have  startled  it ;  they  don't 
run  in  the  morning.  I  '11  stop  it  on  the  instant, 
if  you  like." 

And  Veretyeff  whistled  loudly.  The  hare  im- 
mediately squatted,  twitched  its  ears,  drew  up  its 
fore  paws,  straightened  itself  up,  munched, 
sniffed  the  air,  and  again  began  to  munch  with 
its  lips.  Veretyeff  promptly  squatted  down  on 
his  heels,  like  the  hare,  and  began  to  twitch  his 
nose,  sniff,  and  munch  like  it.  The  hare  passed 
its  paws  twice  across  its  muzzle  and  shook  it- 
self,— they  must  have  been  wet  with  dew, — stif- 
fened its  ears,  and  bounded  onward.  Veretyeff 
rubbed  his  hands  over  his  cheeks  and  shook  him- 

244 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

self  also.  .  .  .  Marya  Pavlovna  could  not  hold 
out,  and  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"  Bravo!  "—cried  VeretyefF,  springing  up. 
"  Bravo!  That  's  ex-actly  the  point — you  are  not 
a  coquette.  Do  you  know,  if  any  fashionable 
young  lady  had  such  teeth  as  you  have  she  would 
laugh  incessantly.  But  that  's  precisely  why  I 
love  you,  Masha,  because  you  are  not  a  fashion- 
able young  lady,  don't  laugh  without  cause,  and 
don't  wear  gloves  on  your  hands,  which  it  is  a  joy 
to  kiss,  because  they  are  sunburned,  and  one  feels 
their  strength.  ...  I  love  you,  because  you  don't 
argue,  because  you  are  proud,  taciturn,  don't  read 
books,  don't  love  poetry  .  .  .  ." 

"I  '11  recite  some  verses  to  you,  shall  I?" — 
Marya  Pavlovna  interrupted  him,  with  a  certain 
peculiar  expression  on  her  face. 

"  Verses?  "—inquired  VeretyefF,  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"  Yes,  verses ;  the  very  ones  which  that  Peters- 
burg gentleman  recited  last  night." 

The  Upas-Tree '  again?  ....  So  you  really 
were  declaiming  in  the  garden,  by  night?  That 's 
just  like  you.  .  .  .  But  does  it  really  please  you 
so  much? " 

"  Yes,  it  does." 

"  Recite  it." 

Marya  Pavlovna  was  seized  with  shyness.  .  .  . 

"Recite  it,  recite  it,"— repeated  VeretyefF. 

Marya  Pavlovna  began  to  recite;  VeretyefF 
245 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

stood  in  front  of  her,  with  his  arms  folded  on  his 
breast,  and  bent  himself  to  listen.  At  the  fii'st 
line  Marya  Pavlovna  raised  her  eyes  heaven- 
ward; she  did  not  wish  to  encounter  VeretyefF's 
gaze.  She  recited  in  her  even,  soft  voice,  which 
reminded  one  of  the  sound  of  a  violoncello;  but 
when  she  reached  the  lines: 

"And  the  poor  slave  expired  at  the  feet 
Of  his  invincible  sovereign   .    .    .    ."" 

her  voice  began  to  quiver,  her  impassive,  haughty 
brows  rose  ingenuously,  like  those  of  a  little  girl, 
and  her  eyes,  with  involuntary  devotion,  fixed 
themselves  on  Veretyeif .  .  .  . 

He  suddenly  threw  himself  at  her  feet  and 
embraced  her  knees. 

"  I  am  thy  slave!  "—he  cried.—"  I  am  at  thy 
feet,  thou  art  my  sovereign,  my  goddess,  my  ox- 
eyed  Hera,  my  Medea  .  .  .  ." 

Marya  Pavlovna  attempted  to  repulse  him, 
but  her  hands  sank  helplessly  in  his  thick  curls, 
and,  with  a  smile  of  confusion,  she  dropped  her 
head  on  her  breast.  .  .  . 


Gaveila  Stepanitch  Akilin,  at  whose  house 
the  ball  was  appointed,  belonged  to  the  category 
of  landed  proprietors  who  evoked  the  admiration 

246 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

of  the  neighbours  by  their  ingenuity  in  living  well 
on  very  insignificant  means.  Although  he  did 
not  own  more  than  four  hundred  serfs,  he  was 
in  the  habit  of  entertaining  the  whole  government 
in  a  huge  stone  mansion,  with  a  tower  and  a  flag 
on  the  tower,  erected  by  himself.  The  property 
had  descended  to  him  from  his  father,  and 
had  never  been  distinguished  for  being  well 
ordered;  Gavrfla  Stepanitch  had  been  an  ab- 
sentee for  a  long  time — had  been  in  the  ser- 
vice in  Petersburg.  At  last,  twenty-five  years 
before  the  date  of  our  story,  he  returned  to 
his  native  place,  with  the  rank  of  Collegiate 
Assessor,^  and,  with  a  wife  and  three  daughters, 
had  simultaneously  undertaken  reorganisation 
and  building  operations,  had  gradually  set  up 
an  orchestra,  and  had  begun  to  give  dinners.  At 
first  everybody  had  prophesied  for  him  speedy 
and  inevitable  ruin;  more  than  once  rumours  had 
become  current  to  the  effect  that  Gavrila  Stepa- 
nitch's  estate  was  to  be  sold  under  the  hammer; 
but  the  j^ears  passed,  dinners,  balls,  banquets, 
concerts,  followed  each  other  in  their  customary 
order,  new  buildings  sprang  out  of  the  earth  like 
mushrooms,  and  still  Gavrila  Stepanitch's  estate 
was  not  sold  under  the  hammer,  and  he  himself 
continued  to  live  as  before,  and  had  even  grown 
stout  of  late. 

1  The  eighth  (out  of  fourteen)  in  Peter  the  Great's  Table 
of  Ranks. —Translator. 

247 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

Then  the  neighbours'  gossip  took  another  di- 
rection; they  began  to  hint  at  certain  vast  sums 
which  were  said  to  be  concealed;  they  talked  of 
a  treasure.  ..."  And  if  he  were  only  a  good 
farmer,  .  .  ,  ."  so  argued  the  nobles  among 
themselves;  "  but  that  's  just  what  he  is  n't,  you 
know !  Not  at  all !  So  it  is  deserving  of  surprise, 
and  incomprehensible."  However  that  may  have 
been,  every  one  went  very  gladly  to  Gavrila  Ste- 
panitch's  house.  He  received  his  guests  cordially, 
and  played  cards  for  any  stake  they  liked.  He 
was  a  grey -haired  httle  man,  with  a  small,  pointed 
head,  a  yellow  face,  and  yellow  eyes,  always  care- 
fully shaven  and  perfumed  with  eau-de-cologne ; 
both  on  ordinary  days  and  on  holidays  he  wore 
a  roomy  blue  dress-coat,  buttoned  to  the  chin,  a 
large  stock,  in  which  he  had  a  habit  of  hiding 
his  chin,  and  he  was  foppishly  fastidious  about 
his  linen;  he  screwed  up  his  eyes  and  thrust  out 
his  lips  when  he  took  snufF,  and  spoke  very  po- 
litely and  softly,  incessantly  employing  the  let- 
ter s} 

In  appearance,  Gavrila  Stepanitch  was  not  dis- 
tinguished by  vivacity,  and,  in  general,  his  ex- 
terior was  not  prepossessing,  and  he  did  not 
look  like  a  clever  man,  although,  at  times,  craft 
gleamed  in  his  eye.  He  had  settled  his  two  el- 
der daughters  advantageously ;  the  youngest  was 

I  "  S',"  a  polite  addition  to  sentences,  equivalent  to  a  contraction 
of  the  words  for  "  sir  "  or  "  madam."— Translator. 

248 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

still  at  home,  and  of  marriageable  age.  Gavrila 
Stepanitch  also  had  a  wife,  an  insignificant  and 
wordless  being. 

At  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  Vladimir  Ser- 
gyeitch  presented  himself  at  the  Ipatoifs'  in 
dress-suit  and  white  gloves.  He  found  them  all 
entirely  dressed;  the  little  girls  were  sitting  se- 
dately, afraid  of  mussing  their  starched  white 
frocks;  old  IpatofF,  on  catching  sight  of  Vladi- 
mir Sergyeitch  in  his  dress-suit,  affectionately 
upbraided  him,  and  pointed  to  his  own  frock- 
coat;  Marya  Pavlovna  wore  a  muslin  gown  of  a 
deep  rose  colour,  which  was  extremely  becoming 
to  her.  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  paid  her  several 
compliments.  Marya  Pavlovna's  beauty  at- 
tracted him,  although  she  was  evidently  shy  of 
him ;  he  also  liked  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna,  but  her 
free-and-easy  manners  somewhat  disconcerted 
him.  Moreover,  in  her  remarks,  her  looks,  her 
very  smiles,  mockery  frequently  peeped  forth, 
and  this  disturbed  his  citified  and  well-bred  soul. 
He  would  not  have  been  averse  to  making  fun  of 
others  with  her,  but  it  was  unpleasant  to  him  to 
think  that  she  was  probably  capable  of  jeering  at 
himself. 

The  ball  had  already  begun;  a  good  many 
guests  had  assembled,  and  the  home-bred  orches- 
tra was  crashing  and  booming  and  screeching  in 
the  gallery,  when  the  Ipatoff  family,  accompa- 
nied by  Vladimir  Sergyeitch,  entered  the  hall  of 

249 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

the  Akflin  house.    The  host  met  them  at  the  very 
door,  thanked  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  for  his  tender 
procuration  of  an  agreeable  surprise,— that  was 
the  way  he  expressed  himself,— and,  taking  Ipa- 
toiF's  arm,  he  led  him  to  the  drawing-room,  to 
the    card-tables.      Gavrila    Stepanitch    had    re- 
ceived a  bad  education,  and  everything  in  his 
house,  both  the  music  and  the  furniture  and  the 
food  and  the  wines,  not  only  could  not  be  called 
first-class,  but  were  not  even  fit  to  be  ranked  as 
second-class.      On   the    other   hand,    there   was 
plenty  of  everything,  and  he  himself  did  not  put 
on  airs,  was  not  arrogant  ....  the  nobles  de- 
manded nothing  more  from  him,  and  were  en- 
tirely satisfied  with  his  entertainment.     At  sup- 
per, for  instance,  the  caviare  was  served  cut  up  in 
chunks  and  heavily  salted;  but  no  one  objected 
to  your  taking  it  in  your  fingers,  and  there  was 
plenty  wherewith  to  wash  it  down:  wines  which 
were  cheap,  it  is  true,  but  were  made  from  grapes, 
nevertheless,  and  not  some  other  concoction.    The 
springs  in  Gavrila  Stepanitch's  furniture  were 
rather  uncomfortable,  owing  to  their  stiffness 
and  inflexibility ;  but,  not  to  mention  the  fact  that 
there  were  no  springs  whatever  in  many  of  the 
couches  and  easy-chairs,  any  one  could  place  un- 
der him  a  worsted  cushion,  and  there  was  a  great 
number  of  such  cushions  lying  about,  embroi- 
dered   by    the    hands    of    Gavrila    Stepanitch's 
spouse  herself— and  then  there  was  nothing  left 
to  desire. 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

In  a  word,  Gavrila  Stepanitch's  house  could 
not  possibly  have  been  better  adapted  to  the  so- 
ciable and  unceremonious  style  of  ideas  of  the 
inhabitants  of  ***  county,  and  it  was  solely  ow- 
ing to  Mr.  Akilin's  modesty  that  at  the  assem- 
blies of  the  nobility  he  was  not  elected  Marshal, 
but  a  retired  Major  Podpekin,  a  greatly  re- 
spected and  worthy  man,  despite  the  fact  that  he 
brushed  his  hair  over  to  the  right  temple  from  the 
left  ear,  dyed  his  moustache  a  lilac  hue,  and  as 
he  suffered  from  asthma,  had  of  late  fallen  into 
melancholy. 

So,  then,  the  ball  had  already  begun.  They 
were  dancing  a  quadrille  of  ten  pairs.  The  cava- 
liers were  the  officers  of  a  regiment  stationed  close 
by,  and  divers  not  very  youthful  squires,  and  two 
or  three  officials  from  the  town.  Everything 
was  as  it  should  be,  everything  was  proceeding 
in  due  order.  The  Marshal  of  the  Nobihty 
was  playing  cards  with  a  retired  Actual  Coun- 
cillor of  State,^  and  a  wealthy  gentleman,  the 
owner  of  three  thousand  souls.  The  actual  state 
councillor  wore  on  his  forefinger  a  ring  with  a 
diamond,  talked  very  softly,  kept  the  heels  of  his 
boots  closely  united,  and  did  not  move  them  from 
the  position  used  by  dancers  of  former  days,  and 
did  not  turn  his  head,  which  was  half  concealed 
by  a  capital  velvet  collar.  The  wealthy  gentle- 
man, on  the  contrary,  was  constantly  laughing  at 
something  or  other,  elevating  his  eyebrows,  and 

*The  fourth  from  the  top  in  the  Table  of  Ranks.— Translator. 

251 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

flashing  the  whites  of  his  eyes.  The  poet  Bo- 
dryakoiF,  a  man  of  shy  and  clumsy  aspect,  was 
chatting  in  a  corner  with  the  learned  historian 
EvsiukofF:  each  had  clutched  the  other  by  the 
button.  Beside  them,  one  noble,  with  a  remark- 
ably long  waist,  was  expounding  certain  auda- 
cious opinions  to  another  noble  who  was  timidly 
staring  at  his  forehead.  Along  the  wall  sat 
the  mammas  in  gay-hued  caps;  around  the 
doors  pressed  the  men  of  simple  cut,  young 
fellows  with  perturbed  faces,  and  elderly  fellows 
with  peaceable  ones;  but  one  cannot  describe 
everything.  We  repeat:  everything  was  as  it 
should  be. 

Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  had  arrived  even  ear- 
lier than  the  IpatolFs;  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  saw 
her  dancing  with  a  young  man  of  handsome  ap- 
pearance in  a  dandified  dress-suit,  with  expres- 
sive eyes,  thin  black  moustache,  and  gleaming 
teeth;  a  gold  chain  hung  in  a  semicircle  on  his 
stomach.  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  wore  a  light- 
blue  gown  with  white  flowers;  a  small  garland  of 
the  same  flowers  encircled  her  curly  head ;  she  was 
smiling,  fluttering  her  fan,  and  gaily  gazing 
about  her;  she  felt  that  she  was  the  queen  of 
the  ball.  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  approached  her, 
made  his  obeisance,  and  looking  her  pleasantly  in 
the  face,  he  asked  her  whether  she  remembered 
her  promise  of  the  day  before. 

"  What  promise? " 

252 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

"  Why,  that  you  would  dance  the  mazurka  with 
me." 

"  Yes,  of  course  I  will  dance  it  with  you." 

The  young  man  who  stood  alongside  Na- 
dezhda  Alexyeevna  suddenly  flushed  crimson. 

"  You  have  probably  forgotten,  mademoiselle," 
— he  began, — "  that  you  had  already  previously 
promised  to-day's  mazurka  to  me." 

Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  became  confused. 

"  Akh!  good  heavens,  what  am  I  to  do?  "—she 
said: — "excuse  me,  praj^  M'sieu  Steltchinsky, 
I  am  so  absent-minded ;  I  really  am  ashamed.  .  . ." 

M'sieu  Steltchinsky  made  no  reply,  and  merely 
dropped  his  eyes;  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  assumed 
a  slight  air  of  dignity. 

"  Be  so  good,  M'sieu  Steltchinsky,"— went  on 
Nadezhda  Alexyeevna ;  "  you  and  I  are  old  ac- 
quaintances, but  M'sieu  AstakhofF  is  a  stranger 
among  us;  do  not  place  me  in  an  awkward  posi- 
tion: permit  me  to  dance  with  him." 

"  As  you  please," — returned  the  young  man. — 
"  But  you  must  begin." 

"  Thanks," — said  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna,  and 
fluttered  ofl*  to  meet  her  vis-a-vis. 

Steltchinsky  followed  her  with  his  eyes,  then 
looked  at  Vladimir  Sergyeitch.  Vladimir  Ser- 
gyeitch, in  his  turn,  looked  at  him,  then  stepped 
aside. 

The  quadrille  soon  came  to  an  end.  Vladimir 
Sergyeitch  strolled  about  the  hall  a  Httle,  then 

253 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

he  betook  himself  to  the  drawing-room  and 
paused  at  one  of  the  card-tables.  Suddenly  he 
felt  some  one  touch  his  hand  from  behind;  he 
turned  round— before  him  stood  Steltchinsky. 

"  I  must  have  a  couple  of  words  with  you  in 
the  next  room,  if  you  will  permit,"— said  the  lat- 
ter, in  French,  very  courteously,  and  with  an 
accent  which  was  not  Russian. 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  followed  him. 

Steltchinsky  halted  at  a  window. 

"  In  the  presence  of  ladies,"— he  began,  in  the 
same  language  as  before,—"  I  could  not  say  any- 
thing else  than  what  I  did  say;  but  I  hope  you 
do  not  think  that  I  really  intend  to  surrender  to 
you  my  right  to  the  mazurka  with  M-lle  Vere- 
tyefF." 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  was  astounded. 

"  Why  so?  "—he  asked. 

"  Because,  sir,"— replied  Steltchinsky,  quietly, 
laying  his  hand  on  his  breast  and  inflating  his 
nostrils,—"  I  don't  intend  to,— that  's  all." 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  also  laid  his  hand  on  his 
breast,  but  did  not  inflate  his  nostrils. 

"  Permit  me  to  remark  to  you,  my  dear  sir,"— 
he  began,— "that  by  this  course  you  may  drag 
M-lle  Veretyefl"  into  unpleasantness,  and  I  as- 
sume .  .  .  ." 

"  That  would  be  extremely  unpleasant  to  me, 
but  no  one  can  prevent  your  declining,  declar- 
ing that  you  are  ill,  or  going  away.  .  .  ." 

254 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

"  I  shall  not  do  it.  For  whom  do  you  take 
me?" 

"  In  that  case,  I  shall  be  compelled  to  demand 
satisfaction  from  you." 

"  In  what  sense  do  you  mean  ....  satisfac- 
tion? " 

"  The  sense  is  evident." 

"  You  will  challenge  me  to  a  duel?  " 

"  Precisely  so,  sir,  if  you  do  not  renounce  the 
mazurka." 

Steltchinsky  endeavoured  to  utter  these  words 
as  negligently  as  possible.  Vladimir  Sergyeitch's 
heart  set  to  beating  violently.  He  looked  his 
wholly  unexpected  antagonist  in  the  face. 
"  Phew,  O  Lord,  what  stupidity!  "  he  thought. 

"  You  are  not  jesting?  "—he  articulated 
aloud. 

"  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  jesting  in  general," 
—replied  Steltchinsky,  pompously;— "  and  par- 
ticularly with  people  whom  I  do  not  know.  You 
will  not  renounce  the  mazurka?  "—he  added, 
after  a  brief  pause. 

"  I  will  not,"— retorted  Vladimir  Sergyeitch, 
as  though  deliberating. 

"  Very  good!    We  will  fight  to-morrow." 

"  Very  well." 

"  To-morrow  morning  my  second  will  call 
upon  you." 

And  with  a  courteous  inclination,  Steltchinsky 
withdrew,  evidently  well  pleased  with  himself. 

255 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  remained  a  few  minutes 
longer  by  the  window. 

"Just  look  at  that,  now!"— he  thought. — 
"  This  Is  the  result  of  thy  new  acquaintances! 
What  possessed  me  to  come?  Good!   Splendid!  " 

But  at  last  he  recovered  himself,  and  went  out 
Into  the  hall. 

In  the  hall  they  were  already  dancing  the 
polka.  Before  Vladimir  Sergyeitch's  eyes  Marya 
Pavlovna  flitted  past  with  Plotr  Alexyeltch, 
whom  he  had  not  noticed  up  to  that  moment; 
she  seemed  pale,  and  even  sad;  then  Nadezhda 
Alexyeevna  darted  past,  all  beaming  and  joyous, 
with  some  youthful,  bow-legged,  but  fiery  artil- 
lery officer;  on  the  second  round,  she  was  danc- 
ing with  Steltchinsky.  Steltchinsky  shook  his 
hair  violently  when  he  danced. 

"  Well,  my  dear  fellow,"— suddenly  rang  out 
IpatofF's  voice  behind  Vladimir  Sergyeitch's 
back;—"  you  're  only  looking  on,  but  not  danc- 
ing yourself?  Come,  confess  that.  In  spite  of  the 
fact  that  we  live  In  a  dead-calm  region,  so  to 
speak,  we  are  n't  badly  off,  are  we,  hey? " 

"  Good!  damn  the  dead-calm  region!  "  thought 
Vladimir  Sergyeitch,  and  mumbling  something 
In  reply  to  IpatofF,  he  went  off  to  another  cor- 
ner of  the  hall. 

"  I  must  hunt  up  a  second,"— he  pursued  his 
meditations;—"  but  where  the  devil  am  I  to  find 
one?    I  can't  take  VeretyefF;  I  know  no  others; 

256 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

the  devil  only  knows  what  a  stupid  affair  this 
is!" 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch,  when  he  got  angry,  was 
fond  of  mentioning  the  devil. 

At  this  moment,  Vladimir  Sergyeitch's  eyes 
fell  upon  The  Folding  Soul,  Ivan  Ilitch,  stand- 
ing idly  by  the  window. 

"  Would  n't  he  do?  "—he  thought,  and  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders,  he  added  almost  aloud:—"  I 
shall  have  to  take  him." 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  stepped  up  to  him. 

"  A  very  strange  thing  has  just  happened  to 
me," — began  our  hero  with  a  forced  smile:  — 
"  just  imagine  some  young  man  or  other,  a 
stranger  to  me,  has  challenged  me  to  a  duel ;  it  is 
utterly  impossible  for  me  to  refuse;  I  am  in 
indispensable  need  of  a  second:  will  not  you 
act?" 

Although  Ivan  Ilitch  was  characterised,  as  we 
know,  by  imperturbable  indifference,  yet  such 
an  unexpected  proposition  startled  even  him. 
Thoroughly  perplexed,  he  riveted  his  eyes  on 
Vladimir  Sergyeitch. 

"  Yes,"— repeated  Vladimir  Sergyeitch;— "  I 
should  be  greatly  indebted  to  you.  I  am  not  ac- 
quainted with  any  one  here.    You  alone  .  .  .  ." 

"  I  can't," — said  Ivan  Ilitch,  as  though  just 
waking  up;—"  I  absolutely  can't." 

"Why  not?  You  are  afraid  of  unpleasant- 
ness ;  but  all  this  will,  I  hope,  remain  a  secret. . . ." 

257 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

As  he  spoke  these  words,  Vladimir  Sergyeitch 
felt  himself  blushing  and  growing  confused. 

"  Excuse  me,  I  can't  possibly,"— repeated 
Ivan  ilitch,  shaking  his  head  and  drawing  back, 
in  which  operation  he  again  overturned  a  chair. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  it  was  his  lot  to 
reply  to  a  request  by  a  refusal ;  but  then,  the  re- 
quest was  such  a  queer  one ! 

"  At  any  rate,"— pursued  Vladimir  Sergye- 
itch, in  an  agitated  voice,  as  he  grasped  his  hand, 
—  "  do  me  the  favour  not  to  speak  to  any  one  con- 
cerning what  I  have  said  to  you.  I  earnestly 
entreat  this  of  you." 

"  I  can  do  that,  I  can  do  that,"— hastily  re- 
plied Ivan  Ilitch;  — "  but  the  other  thing  I  can- 
not do,  say  what  you  will;  I  positively  am 
unable  to  do  it." 

"  Well,  very  good,  very  good,"— said  Vladi- 
mir Sergyeitch;—"  but  do  not  forget  that  I  rely 
on  your  discretion.  ...  I  shall  announce  to- 
morrow to  that  gentleman,"  he  muttered  to  him- 
self with  vexation, — "  that  I  could  not  find  a 
second,  so  let  him  make  what  arrangements  he 
sees  fit,  for  I  am  a  stranger  here.  And  the  devil 
prompted  me  to  apply  to  that  gentleman!  But 
what  else  was  there  for  me  to  do?  " 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  was  very,  very  unlike  his 
usual  self. 

In  the  meantime,  the  ball  went  on.  Vladi- 
mir Sergyeitch  would  have  greatly  liked  to  de- 

258 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD   CALM 

part  at  once,  but  departure  was  not  to  be  thought 
of  until  the  end  of  the  mazurka.  How  was  he 
to  give  up  to  his  deHghted  antagonist?  Unhap- 
pily for  Vladimir  Sergyeitch,  the  dances  were 
in  charge  of  a  free-and-easy  young  gentleman 
with  long  hair  and  a  sunken  chest,  over  which, 
in  semblance  of  a  miniature  waterfall,  meandered 
a  black  satin  neckcloth,  transfixed  with  a  huge 
gold  pin.  This  young  gentleman  had  the  repu- 
tation, throughout  the  entire  government,  of  be- 
ing a  man  who  had  assimilated,  in  their  most 
delicate  details,  all  the  customs  and  rules  of  the 
highest  society,  although  he  had  lived  in  Peters- 
burg only  six  months  altogether,  and  had  not  suc- 
ceeded in  penetrating  any  loftier  heights  than  the 
houses  of  Collegiate  Assessor  Sandaraki  and  his 
brother-in-law.  State  Councillor  Kostandaraki. 
He  superintended  the  dances  at  all  balls,  gave  the 
signal  to  the  musicians  by  clapping  his  hands, 
and  in  the  midst  of  the  roar  of  the  trumpets  and 
the  squeaking  of  the  violins  shouted :  "  En  avant 
deux!  "  or  "  Grande  chainel  "  or  "A  vous,  made- 
moiselle! "  and  was  incessantly  flying,  all  pale 
and  perspiring,  through  the  hall,  slipping  head- 
long, and  bowing  and  scraping.  He  never  began 
the  mazurka  before  midnight.  "  And  that  is  a 
concession,"— he  was  wont  to  say;— "in  Peters- 
burg I  would  keep  you  in  torment  until  two 
o'clock." 

This  ball  seemed  very  long  to  Vladimir  Ser- 
259 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD   CALM 

gyeitch.  He  prowled  about  like  a  shadow  from 
hall  to  drawing-room,  now  and  again  exchanging 
cold  glances  with  his  antagonist,  who  never 
missed  a  single  dance,  and  undertook  to  invite 
Marya  Pavlovna  for  a  quadrille,  but  she  was 
already  engaged — and  a  couple  of  times  he  ban- 
died words  with  the  anxious  host,  who  appeared 
to  be  harassed  by  the  tedium  which  was  written 
on  the  countenance  of  the  new  guest.  At  last, 
the  music  of  the  longed-for  mazurka  thundered 
out.  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  hunted  up  his  lady, 
brought  two  chairs,  and  seated  himself  with  her, 
near  the  end  of  the  circle,  almost  opposite  Stel- 
tchmsky. 

The  young  man  who  managed  affairs  was  in 
the  first  pair,  as  might  have  been  expected.  With 
what  a  face  he  began  the  mazurka,  how  he 
dragged  his  lady  after  him,  how  he  beat  the  floor 
with  his  foot,  and  twitched  his  head  the  while, — 
all  this  is  almost  beyond  the  power  of  human  pen 
to  describe. 

"  But  it  seems  to  me,  M'sieu  AstakhofF,  that 
you  are  bored," — began  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna, 
suddenly  turning  to  Vladimir  Sergyeitch. 

"I?  Not  in  the  least.  What  makes  you  think 
so?" 

"  Why,  because  I  do  from  the  expression  of 
your  face.  .  .  .  You  have  never  smiled  a  single 
time  since  you  arrived.  I  had  not  expected  that 
of  you.    It  is  not  becoming  to  you  positive  gen- 

260 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

tlemen  to  be  misanthropical  and  to  frown  a  la 
Byron.    Leave  that  to  the  authors." 

"  I  notice,  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna,  that  you 
frequently  call  me  a  positive  man,  as  though 
mockingly.  It  must  be  that  you  regard  me  as 
the  coldest  and  most  sensible  of  beings,  incapable 
of  anything  which  ....  But  do  you  know,  I  will 
tell  you  something;  a  positive  man  is  often  very 
sad  at  heart,  but  he  does  not  consider  it  neces- 
sary to  display  to  others  what  is  going  on  there 
inside  of  him;  he  prefers  to  hold  his  peace." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  " — inquired  Na- 
dezhda Alexyeevna,  surveying  him  with  a  glance. 

"  Nothing,  ma'am," — replied  Vladimir  Ser- 
gyeitch,  with  feigned  indifference,  assuming  an 
air  of  mystery. 

"  Really? " 

"  Really,  nothing.  .  .  .  You  shall  know  some 
day,  later  on." 

Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  wanted  to  pursue  her 
questions,  but  at  that  moment  a  young  girl,  the 
host's  daughter,  led  up  to  her  Steltchinsky  and 
another  cavalier  in  blue  spectacles. 

"Life  or  death?"— she  asked  in  French. 

"  Life,"— exclaimed  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna; 
"  I  don't  want  death  just  yet." 

Steltchinsky  bowed;  she  went  off  with  liim.^ 

1  The  figures  in  the  mazurka  are  like  those  in  the  cotillon  (which  is 
often  danced  the  same  evening),  but  the  step  is  very  animated  and 
original. —Translator. 

261 


THE  REGION   OF  DEAD  CALM 

The  cavalier  in  the  blue  glasses,  who  was  called 
Death,  started  off  with  the  host's  daughter.  Stel- 
tchinsky  had  invented  the  two  designations. 

"  Tell  me,  please,  who  is  that  Mr.  Steltchin- 
sky?  "—inquired  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  of  Na- 
dezhda  Alexyeevna,  as  soon  as  the  latter  returned 
to  her  place. 

"  He  is  attached  to  the  Governor's  service,  and 
is  a  very  agreeable  man.  He  does  not  belong  in 
these  parts.  He  is  somewhat  of  a  coxcomb,  but 
that  runs  in  the  blood  of  all  of  them.  I  hope  you 
have  not  had  any  explanations  with  him  on  ac- 
count of  the  mazurka? " 

"  None  whatever,  I  assure  you,"— replied  Vla- 
dimir Sergyeitch,  with  a  little  hesitation. 

"  I  'm  such  a  forgetful  creature!  You  can't 
imagine!  " 

"  I  am  bound  to  be  delighted  with  your  for- 
getfulness:  it  has  afforded  me  the  pleasure  of 
dancing  with  you  to-night." 

Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  gazed  at  him,  with  her 
eyes  slightly  narrowed. 

"  Really?  You  find  it  agreeable  to  dance  with 
me?" 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  answered  her  with  a  com- 
pliment. Little  by  little  he  got  to  talking  freely. 
Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  was  always  charming,  and 
particularly  so  that  evening;  Vladimir  Sergye- 
itch thought  her  enchanting.  The  thought  of  the 
duel  on  the  morrow,  while  it  fretted  liis  nerves, 

262 


THE   REGION   OF  DEAD   CALM 

imparted  brilliancy  and  vivacity  to  his  remarks; 
under  its  influence  he  permitted  himself  slight  ex- 
aggerations in  the  expression  of  his  feelings.  .  .  . 
"  I  don't  care!  "  he  thought.  Something  myste- 
rious, involuntarily  sad,  something  elegantly- 
hopeless  peeped  forth  in  all  his  words,  in  his 
suppressed  sighs,  in  his  glances  which  suddenly 
darkened.  At  last,  he  got  to  chattering  to 
such  a  degree  that  he  began  to  discuss  love, 
women,  his  future,  the  manner  in  which  he  con- 
ceived of  happiness,  what  he  demanded  of 
Fate.  .  .  .  He  explained  himself  allegorically, 
by  hints.  On  the  eve  of  his  possible  death, 
Vladimir  Sergyeitch  flirted  with  Nadezhda 
Alexyeevna. 

She  listened  to  him  attentively,  laughed,  shook 
her  head,  now  disputed  with  him,  again  pre- 
tended to  be  incredulous.  .  .  .  The  conversa- 
tion, frequently  interrupted  by  the  approach  of 
ladies  and  cavaliers,  took  a  rather  strange  turn 
toward  the  end.  .  .  .  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  had 
already  begun  to  interrogate  Nadezhda  Alexye- 
evna about  herself,  her  character,  her  sympathies. 
At  first  she  parried  the  questions  with  a  jest, 
then,  suddenly,  and  quite  unexpectedly  to  Vla- 
dimir Sergyeitch,  she  asked  him  when  he  was 
going  away. 

"  Whither?  " — he  said,  in  surprise. 

"  To  your  own  home." 

"To  Sasovo?" 

26a 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

"  No,  home,  to  your  village,  a  hundred  versts 
from  here." 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  cast  down  his  eyes. 

"  I  should  like  to  go  as  promptly  as  possible," 
— he  said  with  a  preoccupied  look  on  his  face. — 
"  To-morrow,  I  think  ....  if  I  am  alive.  For 
I  have  business  on  hand.  But  why  have  you 
suddenly  taken  it  into  j^our  head  to  ask  me  about 
that?" 

"  Because  I  have!  "—retorted  Nadezhda  Ale- 
xyeevna. 

"  But  what  is  the  reason?  " 

"Because  I  have!"— she  repeated.  —  "!  am 
surprised  at  the  curiosity  of  a  man  who  is  going 
away  to-morrow,  and  to-day  wants  to  find  out 
about  my  character.  .  .  ." 

"  But,  pardon  me  .  .  .  ."  began  Vladimir  Ser- 
gyeitch. .  .  . 

"  Ah,  here,  by  the  way  ....  read  this," — Na- 
dezhda Alexyeevna  interrupted  him  with  a  laugh, 
as  she  handed  him  a  motto-slip  of  paper  from 
bonbons  which  she  had  just  taken  from  a  small 
table  that  stood  near  by,  as  she  rose  to  meet  Ma- 
rya  Pavlovna,  who  had  stopped  in  front  of  her 
with  another  lady. 

Marya  Pavlovna  was  dancing  with  Piotr 
Alexyeitch.  Her  face  was  covered  with  a  flush, 
and  was  flaming,  but  not  cheerful. 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  glanced  at  the  slip  of 
paper;  thereon,  in  wretched  French  letters,  was 
printed : 

264 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

"  Qui  me  neglige  me  perd." 

He  raised  his  eyes,  and  encountered  Steltchin- 
sky's  gaze  bent  upon  him.  Vladimir  Sergyeitch 
smiled  constrainedly,  threw  his  elbow  over  the 
back  of  the  chair,  and  crossed  his  legs — as  much 
as  to  say:  "  I  don't  care  for  thee!  " 

The  fiery  artillery  officer  brought  Nadezhda 
Alexyeevna  up  to  her  chair  with  a  dash,  pirou- 
etted gently  in  front  of  her,  bowed,  clicked  his 
spurs,  and  departed.    She  sat  down. 

"Allow  me  to  inquire," — began  Vladimir  Ser- 
gyeitch, with  pauses  between  his  words, — "  in 
what  sense  I  am  to  understand  this  billet?  .  .  .  ." 

"But  what  in  the  world  does  it  say?"— said 
Nadezhda  Alexyeevna.  —  "Ah,  yes!  'Qui  me 
neglige  me  perdf  Well!  that  's  an  admirable 
rule  of  life,  which  may  be  of  service  at  every  step. 
In  order  to  make  a  success  of  anything,  no  mat- 
ter what,  one  must  not  neglect  anything  whatso- 
ever. .  .  .  One  must  endeavour  to  obtain  every- 
thing; perhaps  one  will  obtain  something.  But 
I  am  ridiculous.  I  ....  I  am  talking  to  you, 
a  practical  man,  about  rules  of  life.  .  .  ." 

Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  burst  into  a  laugh,  and 
Vladimir  Sergyeitch  strove,  in  vain,  to  the  very 
end  of  the  mazurka,  to  renew  their  previous  con- 
versation. Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  avoided  it  with 
the  perversity  of  a  capricious  child.  Vladimir 
Sergyeitch  talked  to  her  about  his  sentiments, 
and  she  either  did  not  reply  to  him  at  all,  or  else 
she  called  his  attention  to  the  gowns  of  the  ladies, 

265 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

to  the  ridiculous  faces  of  some  of  the  men,  to  the 
skill  with  which  her  brother  danced,  to  the  beauty 
of  Marya  Pavlovna;  she  began  to  talk  about 
music,  about  the  day  before,  about  Egor  Kapi- 
tonitch  and  his  wife,  Matryona  Markovna  .... 
and  only  at  the  very  close  of  the  mazurka,  when 
Vladimir  Sergyeitch  was  beginning  to  make  her 
his  farewell  bow,  did  she  say,  with  an  ironical 
smile  on  her  lips  and  in  her  eyes : 

"  So  you  are  positively  going  to-morrow? " 
"Yes;   and   very   far   away,    perhaps," — said 
Vladimir  Sergyeitch,  significantly. 
"  I  wish  you  a  happy  journey." 
And     Nadezhda     Alexyeevna     swiftly     ap- 
proached her  brother,  merrily  whispered  some- 
thing in  his  ear,  then  asked  aloud : 

"  Grateful  to  me?    Yes?  art  thou  not?  other- 
wise he  would  have  asked  her  for  the  mazurka." 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  said : 
"  Nevertheless,  nothing  will  come  of  it.  .  .  ." 
She  led  him  oiF  into  the  drawing-room. 
"The   flirt!  "—thought  Vladimir   Sergyeitch, 
and  taking  his  hat  in  his  hand,  he  slipped  un- 
noticed from  the  hall,  hunted  up  his  footman, 
to  whom  he  had  previously  given  orders  to  hold 
himself  in  readiness,  and  was  already  donning 
his  overcoat,  when  suddenly,  to  his  intense  sur- 
prise, the  lackey  informed  him  that  it  was  im- 
possible  to   depart,   as   the   coachman,   in   some 
unknown   manner,    had   drunk   to   intoxication, 

266 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

and  that  it  was  utterly  impossible  to  arouse  him. 
After  cursing  the  coachman  in  a  remarkably 
brief  but  extremely  powerful  manner  (this  took 
place  in  the  anteroom,  outside  witnesses  were 
present ) ,  and  informing  his  footman  that  if  the 
coachman  was  not  in  proper  condition  by  day- 
light to-morrow,  then  no  one  in  the  world  would 
be  capable  of  picturing  to  himself  what  the  result 
would  be,  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  returned  to  the 
hall,  and  requested  the  major-domo  to  allot  him 
a  chamber,  without  waiting  for  supper,  which 
was  already  prepared  in  the  drawing-room.  The 
master  of  the  house  suddenly  popped  up,  as  it 
were,  out  of  the  floor,  at  Vladimir  Sergyeitch's 
very  elbow  ( Gavrila  Stepanitch  wore  boots  with- 
out heels,  and  therefore  moved  about  without  the 
slightest  sound),  and  began  to  hold  him  back, 
assuring  him  that  there  would  be  caviar  of  the 
very  best  quality  for  supper;  but  Vladimir  Ser- 
gyeitch excused  himself  on  the  plea  of  a  head- 
ache. Half  an  hour  later  he  was  lying  in  a 
small  bed,  under  a  short  coverlet,  and  trying  to 
get  to  sleep. 

But  he  could  not  get  to  sleep.  Toss  as  he 
would  from  side  to  side,  strive  as  he  would  to 
think  of  something  else,  the  figure  of  Steltchin- 
sky  importunately  towered  up  before  him.  .  .  . 
Now  he  is  taking  aim  .  .  .  now  he  has  fired. 
.  .  .  .  "  AstakhofF  is  killed,"  says  some  one. 
Vladimir  Sergyeitch  could  not  be  called  a  brave 

267 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

man,  yet  he  was  no  coward;  but  even  the 
thought  of  a  duel,  no  matter  with  whom,  had 
never  once  entered  his  head.  .  .  .  Fight!  with 
his  good  sense,  peaceable  disposition,  respect 
for  the  conventions,  dreams  of  future  prosperity, 
and  an  advantageous  marriage!  If  it  had  not 
been  a  question  of  his  own  person,  he  would 
have  laughed  heartily,  so  stupid  and  ridiculous 
did  this  affair  seem  to  him.  Fight!  with  whom, 
and  about  what?  ! 

"Phew!  damn  it!  what  nonsense!  "—he 
exclaimed  involuntarily  aloud. — "  Well,  and 
what  if  he  really  does  kill  me?"— he  con- 
tinued his  meditations;—"  I  must  take  measures, 
make  arrangements.  .  .  .  Who  will  mourn  for 
me?" 

And  in  vexation  he  closed  his  eyes,  which  were 
staringly-wide  open,  drew  the  coverlet  up 
around  his  neck  ....  but  could  not  get  to  sleep, 
nevertheless.  .  .  . 

Dawn  was  already  breaking,  and  exhausted 
with  the  fever  of  insomnia,  Vladimir  Sergyeitch 
was  beginning  to  fall  into  a  doze,  when  suddenly 
he  felt  some  weight  or  other  on  his  feet.  He 
opened  his  eyes.  .  .  .  On  his  bed  sat  Veretyeff . 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  was  greatly  amazed,  es- 
pecially when  he  noticed  that  Veretyeff  had  no 
coat  on,  that  beneath  his  unbuttoned  shirt  his 
bare  breast  was  visible,  that  his  hair  was  tum- 
bling over  his  forehead,  and  that  his  very  face 

268 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

appeared  changed.  Vladimir  Sergyeiteh  got 
half-way  out  of  bed.  .  .  . 

"  Allow  me  to  ask  .  .  .  ."  he  began,  throwing 
his  hands  apart.  .  .  . 

"  I  have  come  to  you," — said  Veretyeff,  in  a 
hoarse  voice; — "  excuse  me  for  coming  in  such  a 
guise.  .  .  .  We  have  been  drinking  a  bit  yonder. 
I  wanted  to  put  you  at  ease.  I  said  to  myself: 
'  Yonder  lies  a  gentleman  who,  in  all  probability, 
cannot  get  to  sleep. — Let  's  help  him.'— Under- 
stand ;  you  are  not  going  to  fight  to-morrow,  and 
can  go  to  sleep " 

Vladimir  Sergyeiteh  was  still  more  amazed 
than  before. 

"  What  was  that  you  said?  " — he  muttered. 

"Yes;  that  has  all  been  adjusted," — went  on 
Veretyeff; — "that  gentleman  from  the  banks 
of  the  Visla  ....  Steltchinsky  ....  makes 
his  apologies  to  you  ....  to-morrow  you  will 
receive  a  letter.  .  .  .  I  repeat  to  you:— all  is  set- 
tled. .  .  .  Snore  away." 

So  saying,  Veretyeff  rose,  and  directed  his 
course,  with  unsteady  steps,  toward  the  door. 

"  But  permit  me,  permit  me," — began  Vla- 
dimir Sergyeiteh.  —  "  How  could  you  have  found 
out,  and  how  can  I  believe  .  .  .  ." 

"  Akh!  you  think  that  I  .  .  .  .  you  know  .  .  .  ." 
(and  he  reeled  forward  slightly)  .  ..."  I  tell 
you  ...  he  will  send  a  letter  to  you  to-morrow. 
....  You  do  not  arouse  any  particular  sym- 

269 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

pathy  in  me,  but  magnanimity  is  my  weak  side. 
But  what  's  the  use  of  talking.  ...  It  's  all 
nonsense  anyway.  .  .  .  But  confess," — he  added, 
with  a  wink; — "you  were  pretty  well  scared, 
were  n't  you,  hey?  " 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  flew  into  a  rage. 

"  Permit  me,  in  conclusion,  my  dear  sir," — said 
he.  .  .  . 

"  Well,  good,  good," — VeretyeiF  interrupted 
him  with  a  good-natured  smile. — "  Don't  fly  into 
a  passion.  Evidently  you  are  not  aware  that  no 
ball  ever  takes  place  without  that  sort  of  thing. 
That  's  the  established  rule.  It  never  amounts 
to  anything.  Who  feels  like  exposing  his  brow  ? 
Well,  and  why  not  bluster,  hey?  at  newcomers, 
for  instance  ?  In  vino  Veritas.  However,  neither 
you  nor  I  know  Latin.  But  I  see  by  your  face 
that  you  are  sleepy.  I  wish  you  good  night,  Mr. 
Positive  Man,  well-intentioned  mortal.  Accept 
this  wish  from  another  mortal  who  is  n't  worth 
a  brass  farthing  himself.    Addio,  mio  caro!" 

And  Veretyefl"  left  the  room. 

"The  devil  knows  what  this  means!"— ex- 
claimed Vladimir  Sergyeitch,  after  a  brief  pause, 
banging  his  fist  into  the  pillow;— "no  one  ever 
heard  the  like!  .  .  .  this  must  be  cleared  up!  I 
won't  tolerate  this!  " 

Nevertheless,  five  minutes  later  he  was  already 
sleeping    softly    and    profoundly.  .  .  .  Danger 

270 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD   CALM 

escaped  fills  the  soul  of  man  with  sweetness,  and 
softens  it. 

This  is  what  had  taken  place  before  that  un- 
anticipated nocturnal  interview  between  Vere- 
tyeff  and  Vladimir  Sergyeitch. 

In  Gavrila  Stepanitch's  house  lived  his  grand- 
nephew,  who  occupied  bachelor  quarters  in  the 
lower  story.  When  there  were  balls  on  hand, 
the  young  men  dropped  in  at  his  rooms  between 
the  dances,  to  smoke  a  hasty  pipe,  and  after 
supper  they  assembled  there  for  a  friendly 
drinking-bout.  A  good  many  of  the  guests  had 
dropped  in  on  him  that  night.  Steltchinsky  and 
Veretyeff  were  among  the  number;  Ivan  Ilitch, 
The  Folding  Soul,  also  wandered  in  there  in  the 
wake  of  the  others.  They  brewed  a  punch.  Al- 
though Ivan  Ilitch  had  promised  AstakhofF  that 
he  would  not  mention  the  impending  duel  to  any 
one  whomsoever,  yet,  when  Veretyeff  acciden- 
tally asked  him  what  he  had  been  talking  about 
with  that  glum  fellow  (Veretyeff  never  alluded 
to  AstakhofF  otherwise) ,  The  Folding  Soul  could 
not  contain  himself,  and  repeated  his  entire  con- 
versation with  Vladimir  Sergyeitch,  word  for 
word. 

Veretyeff  burst  out  laughing,  then  lapsed  into 
meditation. 

"  But  with  whom  is  he  going  to  fight? " — he 
asked. 

271 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

"  That  's  what  I  cannot  say,"— returned  Ivan 
Ihtch. 

"  At  all  events,  with  whom  has  he  been  talk- 
mg? 

"With  different  people.  .  .  .  With  Egor 
Kapitonitch.  It  cannot  be  that  he  is  going  to 
fight  with  him? " 

VeretyefF  went  away  from  Ivan  Ilitch. 

So,  then,  they  made  a  punch,  and  began  to 
drink.  VeretyefF  was  sitting  in  the  most  con- 
spicuous place.  Jolly  and  profligate,  he  held  the 
pre-eminence  in  gatherings  of  young  men.  He 
threw  off  his  waistcoat  and  neckcloth.  He  was 
asked  to  sing;  he  took  a  guitar  and  sang  several 
songs.  Heads  began  to  wax  rather  hot;  the 
young  men  began  to  propose  toasts.  Suddenly 
Steltchinsky,  all  red  in  the  face,  sprang  upon 
the  table,  and  elevating  his  glass  high  above  his 
head,  exclaimed  loudly : 

"  To  the  health  ....  of  I  know  whom,"— 
he  hastily  caught  himself  up,  drank  off  his  liquOT, 
and  smashed  his  glass  on  the  floor,  adding:— 
"  May  my  foe  be  shivered  into  just  such  pieces 
to-morrow! " 

VeretyefF,  who  had  long  had  his  eye  on  him, 
swiftly  raised  his  head.  .  .  . 

*'  Steltchinsky,"— said  he,—"  in  the  first  place, 
get  off  the  table ;  that 's  indecorous,  and  you  have 
very  bad  boots  into  the  bargain ;  and,  in  the  second 
place,  come  hither,  I  will  tell  thee  something." 

272 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

He  led  him  aside. 

"  Hearken,  brother ;  I  know  that  thou  art  go- 
ing to  fight  to-morrow  with  that  gentleman  from 
Petersburg." 

Steltchinsky  started. 

"  How  ....  who  told  thee?  " 

"  I  tell  thee  it  is  so.  And  I  also  know  on 
whose  account  thou  art  going  to  fight." 

"  Who  is  it?   I  am  curious  to  know." 

"  Akh,  get  out  with  thee,  thou  Talleyrand! 
My  sister's,  of  course.  Come,  come,  don't  pre- 
tend to  be  surprised.  It  gives  you  a  goose- 
like expression.  I  can't  imagine  how  this 
has  come  about,  but  it  is  a  fact.  That  will 
do,  my  good  fellow," — pursued  Veretyeff. — 
"  What  's  the  use  of  shamming?  I  know,  you 
see,  that  you  have  been  paying  court  to  her  this 
long  time." 

"  But,  nevertheless,  that  does  not  prove  ....'* 

"  Stop,  if  you  please.  But  hearken  to  what 
I  am  about  to  say  to  you.  I  won't  permit  that 
duel  under  any  circumstances  whatsoever.  Dost 
understand?  All  this  folly  will  descend  upon 
my  sister.  Excuse  me:  so  long  as  I  am  alive 
....  that  shall  not  be.  As  for  thou  and  I,  we 
shall  perish— we  're  on  the  road  to  it;  but  she 
must  live  a  long  time  yet,  and  live  happily.  Yes, 
I  swear," — he  added,  with  sudden  heat, — "that 
I  will  betray  all  others,  even  those  who  might 
be  ready  to  sacrifice  everything  for  me,  but  I  will 

273 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

not  permit  any  one  to  touch  a  single  hair  of  her 
head." 

Steltchinsky  emitted  a  forced  laugh. 

"  Thou  art  drunk,  my  dear  fellow,  and  art 
raving  ....  that 's  all." 

"  And  art  not  thou,  I  'd  like  to  know?  But 
whether  I  am  drunk  or  not,  is  a  matter  of  not 
the  slightest  consequence.  But  I  'm  talking 
business.  Thou  shalt  not  fight  with  that  gentle- 
man, I  guarantee  that.  And  what  in  the  world 
possessed  thee  to  have  anything  to  do  with  him? 
Hast  grown  jealous,  pray?  Well,  those  speak 
the  truth  who  say  that  men  in  love  are  stupid! 
Why  she  danced  with  him  simply  in  order  to  pre- 
vent his  inviting  ....  Well,  but  that 's  not  the 
point.    But  this  duel  shall  not  take  place." 

"  H'm!  I  should  like  to  see  how  thou  wilt  pre- 
vent me? " 

"Well,  then,  this  way:  if  thou  dost  not  in- 
stantly give  me  thy  word  to  renounce  this  duel, 
I  will  fight  with  thee  myself." 

"Really?" 

"  My  dear  fellow,  entertain  no  doubt  on  that 
score.  I  will  insult  thee  on  the  spot,  my  little 
friend,  in  the  presence  of  every  one,  in  the  most 
fantastic  manner,  and  then  fight  thee  across 
a  handkerchief,  if  thou  wilt.  But  I  think  that 
will  be  disagreeable  to  thee,  for  many  reasons, 
hey? " 

Steltchinsky  flared  up,  began  to  say  that  this 
274 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD   CALM 

was  intimidation/  that  he  would  not  permit  any 
one  to  meddle  with  his  affairs,  that  he  would  not 
stick  at  anything  ....  and  wound  up  by  sub- 
mitting, and  renouncing  all  attempts  on  the  life 
of  Vladimir  Sergyeitch.  VeretyefF  embraced 
him,  and  half  an  hour  had  not  elapsed,  before  the 
two  had  already  drunk  Briiderschaft  for  the 
tenth  time, — that  is  to  say,  they  drank  with  arms 
interlocked.  .  .  .  The  young  man  who  had  acted 
as  floor-manager  of  the  ball  also  drank  Briider- 
schaft with  them,  and  at  first  clung  close  to  them, 
but  finally  fell  asleep  in  the  most  innocent  man- 
ner, and  lay  for  a  long  time  on  his  back  in  a  con- 
dition of  complete  insensibility.  .  .  .  The  ex- 
pression of  his  tiny,  pale  face  was  both  amusing 
and  pitiful.  .  .  .  Good  heavens!  what  would 
those  fashionable  ladies,  his  acquaintances,  have 
said,  if  they  had  beheld  him  in  that  condition! 
But,  luckily  for  him,  he  was  not  acquainted  with 
a  single  fashionable  lady. 

Ivan  Ilitch  also  distinguished  himself  on  that 
night.  First  he  amazed  the  guests  by  suddenly 
striking  up :  "  In  the  country  a  Baron  once 
dwelt." 

"  The  hawfinch!  The  hawfinch  has  begun  to 
sing!" — shouted  all.  "When  has  it  ever  hap- 
pened that  a  hawfinch  has  sung  by  night?  " 

''  As  though  I  knew  only  one  song," — retorted 

1  He  uses  an  impromptu  Russification  of  a  foreign  word: 
intimiddtziya.  —Translator. 

275 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

Ivan  ilitch,  who  was  heated  with  liquor;—"  I 
know  some  more,  too." 

"  Come,  come,  come,  show  us  your  art." 
Ivan  Ilitch  maintained  silence  for  a  while,  and 
suddenly  struck  up  in  a  bass  voice :  "  Krambam- 
buli,^  bequest  of  our  fathers!"  but  so  incoher- 
ently and  strangely,  that  a  general  outburst  of 
laughter  immediately  drowned  his  voice,  and  he 
fell  silent.  When  all  had  dispersed,  VeretyeiF 
betook  himself  to  Vladimir  Sergyeitch,  and  the 
brief  conversation  already  reported,  ensued  be- 
tween them. 

On  the  following  day,  Vladimir  Sergyeitch 
drove  off  to  his  own  Sasovo  very  early.  He 
passed  the  whole  morning  in  a  state  of  excite- 
ment, came  near  mistaking  a  passing  merchant 
for  a  second,  and  breathed  freely  only  when  his 
lackey  brought  him  a  letter  from  Steltchinsky. 
Vladimir  Sergyeitch  perused  that  letter  several 
times, — it  was  very  adroitly  worded.  .  .  .  Stel- 
tchinsky began  with  the  words :  "  La  nuit  parte 
conseil.  Monsieur/'— made  no  excuses  whatever, 
because,  in  his  opinion,  he  had  not  insulted  his 
antagonist  in  any  way;  but  admitted  that  he 
had  been  somewhat  irritated  on  the  preceding 
evening,  and  wound  up  with  the  statement  that 
he  held  himself  entirely  at  the  disposition  of  Mr. 
AstakhofF  Cde  Mr  Astdkhoff") ,  but  no  longer 
demanded   satisfaction   himself.      After   having 

*  A  mixed  drink.  —Translator. 

276 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

composed  and  despatched  a  reply,  which  was 
filled,  simultaneously  with  courtesy  which  bor- 
dered on  playfulness,  and  a  sense  of  dignity,  in 
which,  however,  no  trace  of  braggadocio  was  per- 
ceptible, Vladimir  Sergyeitch  sat  down  to  din- 
ner, rubbing  his  hands,  ate  with  great  satisfac- 
tion, and  immediately  afterward  set  off,  without 
having  even  sent  relays  on  in  advance.  The 
road  along  which  he  drove  passed  at  a  distance 
of  four  versts  from  Ipatoff 's  manor.  .  .  .  Vla- 
dimir Sergyeitch  looked  at  it. 

"Farewell,  region  of  dead  calm!"— he  said 
with  a  smile. 

The  images  of  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  and  Ma- 
rya  Pavlovna  presented  themselves  for  a  moment 
to  his  imagination ;  he  dismissed  them  with  a  wave 
of  his  hand,  and  sank  into  a  doze. 


VI 

More  than  three  months  had  passed.  Autumn 
had  long  since  set  in ;  the  yellow  forests  had  grown 
bare,  the  tomtits  had  arrived,  and— unfailing 
sign  of  the  near  approach  of  winter— the  wind 
had  begun  to  howl  and  wail.  But  there  had  been 
no  heavy  rains,  as  yet,  and  mud  had  not  suc- 
ceeded in  spreading  itself  over  the  roads.  Tak- 
ing advantage  of  this  circumstance,  Vladimir 
Sergyeitch  set  out  for  the  government  capital, 

277 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

for  the  purpose  of  winding  up  several  matters  of 
business.  He  spent  the  morning  in  driving  about, 
and  in  the  evening  went  to  the  club.  In  the  vast, 
gloomy  hall  of  the  club  he  encountered  several 
acquaintances,  and,  among  others,  the  old  retired 
captain  of  cavalry  Flitch,  a  busybody,  wit,  gam- 
bler, and  gossip,  well  known  to  every  one.  Vla- 
dimir Sergyeitch  entered  into  conversation  with 
him. 

"Ah,  by  the  way!  "—suddenly  exclaimed  the 
retired  cavalry-captain;  "an  acquaintance  of 
yours  passed  through  here  the  other  day,  and  left 
her  compliments  for  you." 

"Who  was  she?" 

"  Madame  Steltchinsky." 

"  I  don't  know  any  Madame  Steltchinsky." 

"  You  knew  her  as  a  girl.  .  .  .  She  was  born 
VeretyefF.  .  .  .  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna.  Her 
husband  served  our  Governor.  You  must  have 
seen  him  also.  ...  A  lively  man,  with  a  mous- 
tache. .  .  .  He  's  hooked  a  splendid  woman,  with 
money  to  boot." 

"  You  don't  say  so,"— said  Vladimir  Sergye- 
itch.— "  So  she  has  married  him.  .  .  .  H'm! 
And  where  have  they  gone?  " 

"  To  Petersburg.  She  also  bade  me  remind 
you  of  a  certain  bonbon  motto.  .  .  .  What  sort 
of  a  motto  was  it,  allow  me  to  inquire?  " 

And  the  old  gossip  thrust  forward  his  sharp 
nose. 

278 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

"  I  don't  remember,  really;  some  jest  or  other," 
—returned  Vladimir  Sergyeitch.— "  But  permit 
me  to  ask,  where  is  her  brother  now?  " 

"  Piotr?    WeU,  he  's  in  a  bad  way." 
Mr.  Flitch  rolled  up  his  small,  foxy  eyes,  and 
heaved  a  sigh. 

"  Why,  what  's  the  matter?  "—asked  Vladimir 
Sergyeitch. 

"  He  has  taken  to  dissipation!  He  's  a  ruined 
man." 

"  But  where  is  he  now?  " 

"It  is  absolutely  unknown  where  he  is.  He 
went  off  somewhere  or  other  after  a  gipsy  girl; 
that 's  the  most  certain  thing  of  all.  He  's  not  in 
this  government,  I  '11  guarantee  that." 

"  And  does  old  Ipatoff  still  live  there?  " 

"  Mikhail  Nikolaitch?  That  eccentric  old  fel- 
low?   Yes,  he  still  lives  there." 

"  And  is  everything  in  his  household  ....  as 
it  used  to  be?  " 

"  Certainly,  certainly.  Here  now,  why  don't 
you  marry  his  sister-in-law  ?  She  's  not  a  woman, 
you  know,  she  's  simply  a  monument,  really. 
Ha,  ha!  People  have  already  been  talking 
among  us  ....  '  why,'  say  they  .  .  .  ." 

"  You  don't  say  so,  sir,"— articulated  Vladi- 
mir Sergyeitch,  narrowing  his  eyes. 

At  that  moment.  Flitch  was  invited  to  a  card- 
game,  and  the  conversation  terminated. 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  had  intended  to  return 
279 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

home  promptly;  but  suddenly  he  received  by 
special  messenger  a  report  from  the  overseer,  that 
six  of  the  peasants'  homesteads  had  burned  down 
in  Sasovo,  and  he  decided  to  go  thither  himself. 
The  distance  from  the  government  capital  to  Sa- 
sovo was  reckoned  at  sixty  versts.  Vladimir  Ser- 
gyeitch  arrived  toward  evening  at  the  wing  with 
which  the  reader  is  already  acquainted,  immedi- 
ately gave  orders  that  the  overseer  and  clerk 
should  be  summoned,  scolded  them  both  in  proper 
fashion,  inspected  the  scene  of  the  conflagration 
next  morning,  took  the  necessary  measures,  and 
after  dinner,  after  some  wavering,  set  off  to 
visit  IpatofF.  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  would  have 
remained  at  home,  had  he  not  heard  from  Flitch 
of  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna's  departure ;  he  did  not 
wish  to  meet  her ;  but  he  was  not  averse  to  taking 
another  look  at  Marya  Pavlovna. 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch,  as  on  the  occasion  of  his 
first  visit,  found  IpatofF  busy  at  draughts  with 
The  Folding  Soul.  The  old  man  was  delighted 
to  see  him;  yet  it  seemed  to  Vladimir  Sergyeitch 
as  though  his  face  were  troubled,  and  his  speech 
did  not  flow  freely  and  readily  as  of  old. 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  exchanged  a  silent  glance 
with  Ivan  llitch.  Both  winced  a  little;  but  they 
speedily  recovered  their  serenity. 

"  Are  all  your  family  well?  " — inquired  Vladi- 
mir Sergyeitch. 

"  Yes,  thank  God,  I  thank  you  sincerely,"— 
280 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

replied  Ipatoff.— "  Only  Marya  Pavlovna  is  n't 
quite  .  .  .  you  know,  she  stays  in  her  room  most 
of  the  time." 

"  Has  she  caught  cold?  " 

"  No  .  .  .  she  just  likes  to.  She  will  make  her 
appearance  at  tea." 

"  And  Egor  Kapitonitch?  What  is  he  doing?" 

"  Akh!  Egor  Kapitonitch  is  a  dead  man.  His 
wife  has  died." 

"It  cannot  be!" 

"  She  died  in  twenty-four  hours,  of  cholera. 
You  would  n't  know  him  now,  he  has  become 
simply  unrecognisable.  '  Without  Matryona 
Markovna,'  he  says,  '  life  is  a  burden  to  me.  I 
shall  die,'  he  says, '  and  God  be  thanked,'  he  says ; 
'  I  don't  wish  to  live,'  says  he.  Yes,  he  's  done 
for,  poor  fellow." 

"  Akh!  good  heavens,  how  unpleasant  that  is!" 
—exclaimed  Vladimir  Sergyeitch.— "Poor  Egor 
Kapitonitch! " 

All  were  silent  for  a  time. 

*'  I  hear  that  your  pretty  neighbour  has  mar- 
ried,"— remarked  Vladimir  Sergyeitch,  flushing 
faintly. 

"  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna?    Yes,  she  has." 

Ipatoif  darted  a  sidelong  glance  at  Vladimir 
Sergyeitch. 

"  Certainly  ....  certainly,  she  has  married 
and  gone  away." 

"To  Petersburg?" 

281 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

"  To  St.  Petersburg." 

"  Marya  Pavlovna  must  miss  her,  I  think.  I 
believe  they  were  great  friends." 

"  Of  course  she  misses  her.  That  cannot  be 
avoided.  But  as  for  friendship,  I  '11  just  tell 
you,  that  the  friendship  of  girls  is  even  worse 
than  the  friendship  of  men.  So  long  as  they  are 
face  to  face,  it  's  all  right;  but,  otherwise,  it  van- 
ishes." 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"  Yes,  by  Heaven,  't  is  so !  Take  Nadezhda 
Alexyeevna,  for  example.  She  has  n't  written 
to  us  since  she  went  away ;  but  how  she  promised, 
even  vowed  that  she  would!  In  truth,  she  's  in 
no  mood  for  that  now." 

"  And  has  she  been  gone  long?  " 

"  Yes ;  it  must  be  fully  six  weeks.  She  hur- 
ried off  on  the  very  day  after  the  wedding,  for- 
eign fashion." 

"  I  hear  that  her  brother  is  no  longer  here, 
either?  "—said  Vladimir  Sergyeitch,  after  a  brief 
pause. 

"  No;  he  is  not.  They  are  city  folk,  you  see; 
as  though  they  would  live  long  in  the  country !  " 

"  And  does  no  one  know  where  he  has  gone?  " 

"  No." 

"  He  just  went  into  a  rage,  and— slap-bang 
on  the  ear,"  remarked  Ivan  Ilitch. 

"  He  just  went  into  a  rage,  and — slap-bang  on 
the  ear,"  repeated  IpatofF.  "  Well,  and  how  about 

282 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

yourself,  Vladimir  Sergyeitch,— what  nice  things 
have  you  been  doing?  "—he  added,  wheeling 
round  on  his  chair. 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  began  to  tell  about  him- 
self; IpatofF  listened  and  listened  to  him,  and  at 
last  exclaimed: 

"  But  why  does  n't  Marya  Pavlovna  come? 
Thou  hadst  better  go  for  her,  Ivan  Ilitch." 

Ivan  Ilitch  left  the  room,  and  returning,  re- 
ported that  Marya  Pavlovna  would  be  there  di- 
rectly. 

"  What  's  the  matter?  Has  she  got  a  head- 
ache? " — inquired  IpatofF,  in  an  undertone. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Ivan  Ilitch. 

The  door  opened,  and  Marya  Pavlovna  en- 
tered. Vladimir  Sergyeitch  rose,  bowed,  and 
could  not  utter  a  word,  so  great  was  his  amaze- 
ment: so  changed  was  Marya  Pavlovna  since 
he  had  seen  her  the  last  time!  The  rosy 
bloom  had  vanished  from  her  emaciated 
cheeks;  a  broad  black  ring  encircled  her  eyes; 
her  lips  were  bitterly  compressed;  her  whole 
face,  impassive  and  dark,  seemed  to  have  become 
petrified. 

She  raised  her  eyes,  and  there  was  no  spark 
in  them. 

"  How  do  you  feel  now?  "  IpatofF  asked  her. 

"  I  am  well," — she  replied;  and  sat  down  at  the 
table,  on  which  the  samovar  was  already  bub- 
bling. 

283 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  was  pretty  thoroughly 
bored  that  evening.  But  no  one  was  in  good 
spirits.  The  conversation  persisted  in  taking  a 
cheerless  turn. 

"  Just  listen," — said  Ipatoff,  among  other 
things,  as  he  lent  an  ear  to  the  howling  of  the 
wind; — "what  notes  it  emits!  The  summer  is 
long  since  past ;  and  here  is  autumn  passing,  too, 
and  winter  is  at  the  door.  Again  we  shall  be 
buried  in  snow-drifts.  I  hope  the  snow  will  fall 
very  soon.  Otherwise,  when  you  go  out  into  the 
garden,  melancholy  descends  upon  you.  .  .  .  Just 
as  though  there  were  some  sort  of  a  ruin  there. 
The  branches  of  the  trees  clash  together.  .  .  . 
Yes,  the  fine  days  are  over!  " 

"  They  are  over,"— repeated  Ivan  Ilitch. 

Marya  Pavlovna  stared  silently  out  of  the  win- 
dow. 

"  God  willing,  they  will  return,"— remarked 
Ipatoff. 

No  one  answered  him. 

"  Do  you  remember  how  finely  they  sang  songs 
here  that  time?  "—said  Vladimir  Sergyeitch. 

"  I  should  think  they  did,"— replied  the  old 
man,  with  a  sigh. 

"  But  you  might  sing  to  us,"— went  on  Vla- 
dimir Sergyeitch,  turning  to  Marya  Pavlovna; 
— "  you  have  such  a  fine  voice." 

She  did  not  answer  him. 

"  And  how  is  your  mother?  "—Vladimir  Ser- 
284 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

gyeitch  inquired  of  Ipatoif,  not  knowing  what 
to  talk  about. 

"  Thank  God!  she  gets  on  nicely,  considering 
her  ailments.  She  came  over  in  her  little  car- 
riage to-day.  She  's  a  broken  tree,  I  must  tell 
you — creak,  creak,  and  the  first  you  know,  some 
young,  strong  sapling  falls  over;  but  she  goes 
on  standing  and  standing.     Ekh,  ha,  ha!" 

Marya  Pavlovna  dropped  her  hands  in  her  lap, 
and  bowed  her  head. 

"  And,  nevertheless,  her  existence  is  hard," — 
began  Ipatoff  again;— "  rightly  is  it  said:  'old 
age  is  no  joy.'  " 

"  And  there  's  no  joy  in  being  young," — said 
Marya  Pavlovna,  as  though  to  herself. 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  would  have  liked  to  re- 
turn home  that  night,  but  it  was  so  dark  out  of 
doors  that  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to 
set  out.  He  was  assigned  to  the  same  chamber, 
up-stairs,  in  which,  three  months  previously,  he 
had  passed  a  troubled  night,  thanks  to  Egor 
Kapitonitch.  .  .  . 

"Does  he  snore  now?  "—thought  Vladimir 
Sergyeitch,  as  he  recalled  his  drilling  of  his  ser- 
vant, and  the  sudden  appearance  of  Marya  Pav- 
lovna in  the  garden.  .  .  . 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  walked  to  the  window, 
and  laid  his  brow  against  the  cold  glass.  His 
own  face  gazed  dimly  at  him  from  out  of  doors, 
as  though  his  eyes  were  riveted  upon  a  black  cur- 

285 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

tain,  and  it  was  only  after  a  considerable  time 
that  he  was  able  to  make  out  against  the  star- 
less sky  the  branches  of  the  trees,  writhing  wildly 
in  the  gloom.  They  were  harassed  by  a  tur- 
bulent wind. 

Suddenly  it  seemed  to  Vladimir  Sergyeitch 
as  though  something  white  had  flashed  along  the 
ground.  .  .  .  He  gazed  more  intently,  laughed, 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  exclaiming  in  an  un- 
dertone: "That  's  what  imagination  will  do!" 
got  into  bed. 

He  fell  asleep  very  soon ;  but  he  was  not  fated 
to  pass  a  quiet  night  on  this  occasion  either.  He 
was  awakened  by  a  running  to  and  fro,  which 
arose  in  the  house.  .  .  .  He  raised  his  head  from 
the  pillow.  .  .  .  Agitated  voices,  exclamations, 
hurried  footsteps  were  audible,  doors  were  bang- 
ing ;  now  the  sound  of  women  weeping  rang  out, 
shouts  were  set  up  in  the  garden,  other  cries  far- 
ther off  responded.  .  .  .  The  uproar  in  the  house 
increased,  and  became  more  noisy  with  every  mo- 
ment. .  .  .  "Fire!"  flashed  through  Vladimir 
Sergyeitch's  mind.  In  alarm  he  sprang  from 
his  bed,  and  rushed  to  the  window;  but  there 
was  no  redness  in  the  sky;  only,  in  the  garden, 
points  of  flame  were  moving  briskly  along  the 
paths,— caused  by  people  running  about  with 
lanterns.  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  went  quickly  to 
the  door,  opened  it,  and  ran  directly  into  Ivan 
Ilitch.     Pale,  dishevelled,  half -clothed,  the  lat- 

286 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

ter  was  dashing  onward,  without  himself  knowing 
whither. 

"What  is  it?  What  has  happened?  "—in- 
quired Vladimir  Sergyeitch,  excitedly,  seizing 
him  by  the  arm. 

"  She  has  disappeared;  she  has  thrown  herself 
into  the  water," — replied  Ivan  Ilitch,  in  a  chok- 
ing voice. 

"  Who  has  thrown  herself  into  the  water?  Who 
has  disappeared?" 

"  Marya  Pavlovna!  Who  else  could  it  be  but 
Marya  Pavlovna  ?  She  has  perished,  the  darling ! 
Help!  Good  heavens,  let  us  run  as  fast  as  we 
can!    Be  quick,  my  dear  people!  " 

And  Ivan  Ilitch  rushed  down  the  stairs. 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  put  on  his  shoes  somehow, 
threw  his  cloak  over  his  shoulders,  and  ran  after 
him. 

In  the  house  he  no  longer  encountered  any  one, 
all  had  hastened  out  into  the  garden;  only  the 
little  girls,  IpatofF's  daughters,  met  him  in  the 
corridor,  near  the  anteroom;  deadly  pale  with 
terror,  they  stood  there  in  their  little  white  petti- 
coats, with  clasped  hands  and  bare  feet,  beside 
a  night-lamp  set  on  the  floor.  Through  the  draw- 
ing-room, past  an  overturned  table,  flew  Vladi- 
mir Sergyeitch  to  the  terrace.  Through  the 
grove,  in  the  direction  of  the  dam,  light  and 
shadows  were  flashing.  .  .  . 

"  Go  for  boat-hooks!  Go  for  boat-hooks  as 
287 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

quickly  as  possible!  "—IpatofF's  voice  could  be 
heard  shouting. 

"  A  net,  a  net,  a  boat!  "—shouted  other  voices. 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  ran  in  the  direction  of  the 
shouts.  He  found  IpatofF  on  the  shore  of  the 
pond ;  a  lantern  hung  on  a  bough  brilliantly  illu- 
minated the  old  man's  grey  head.  He  was  wring- 
ing his  hands,  and  reeling  like  a  drunken  man; 
by  his  side,  a  woman  lay  writhing  and  sobbing 
on  the  grass;  round  about  men  were  bustling. 
Ivan  Ilitch  had  already  advanced  into  the  water 
up  to  his  knees,  and  was  feeling  the  bottom  with 
a  pole;  a  coachman  was  undressing,  trembling 
all  over  as  he  did  so;  two  men  were  dragging  a 
boat  along  the  shore;  a  sharp  trampling  of  hoofs 
was  audible  along  the  village  street. .  .  .  The  wind 
swept  past  with  a  shriek,  as  though  endeavouring 
to  quench  the  lantern,  while  the  pond  plashed 
noisily,  darkling  in  a  menacing  way.  .  .  . 

"What  do  I  hear?  " — exclaimed  Vladimir  Ser- 
gyeitch, rushing  up  to  IpatofF. — "  Is  it  possible? " 

"The  boat-hooks— fetch  the  boat-hooks!"— 
moaned  the  old  man  by  way  of  reply  to  him.  .  .  . 

"  But  good  gracious,  perhaps  you  are  mistaken, 
Mikhail  Nikolaitch.  .  .  ." 

"No,  mistaken  indeed!"— said  the  woman 
who  was  lying  on  the  grass,  Marya  Pavlovna's 
maid,  in  a  tearful  voice.  "  Unlucky  creature  that 
I  am,  I  heard  her  myself,  the  darling,  throw  her- 
self into  the  water,  and  struggling  in  the  water, 

288 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

and  screaming:  *  Save  me!'  and  then,  once  more: 
'Save  me!'" 

*'  Why  did  n't  you  prevent  her,  pray?  " 
"  But  how  was  I  to  prevent  her,  dear  little 
father,  my  lord?    Why,  when  I  discovered  it,  she 
was  no  longer  in  her  room,  but  my  heart  had  a 
foreboding,  you  know;  these  last  days  she  has 
been  so  sad  all  the  time,  and  has  said  nothing ;  so 
I  knew  how  it  was,  and  rushed  straight  into  the 
garden,  just  as  though  some  one  had  made  me 
do  it ;  and  suddenly  I  heard  something  go  splash ! 
into  the  water: '  Save  me! '  I  heard  the  cry: '  Save 
me !'....  Okh,  my  darling,  light  of  my  eyes !  " 
"  But  perhaps  it  only  seemed  so  to  thee ! " 
"  Seemed  so,  forsooth !    But  where  is  she  ?  what 
has  become  of  her?  " 

"  So  that  is  what  looked  white  to  me  in  the 
gloom,"  thought  Vladimir  Sergyeitch.  .  .  . 

In  the  meanwhile,  men  had  run  up  with  boat- 
hooks,  dragged  thither  a  net,  and  begun  to  spread 
it  out  on  the  grass,  a  great  throng  of  people  had 
assembled,  a  commotion  had  arisen,  and  a  jost- 
ling ....  the  coachman  seized  one  boat-hook, 
the  village  elder  seized  another,  both  sprang  into 
the  boat,  put  oiF,  and  set  to  searching  the  water 
with  the  hooks;  the  people  on  the  shore  lighted 
them.  Strange  and  dreadful  did  their  move- 
ments seem,  and  their  shadows  in  the  gloom, 
above  the  agitated  pond,  in  the  dim  and  uncertain 
light  of  the  lanterns. 

289 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

"  He  .  .  .  here,  the  hook  has  caught!" — sud- 
denly cried  the  coacliman. 

All  stood  stock-still  where  they  were. 

The  coachman  pulled  the  hook  toward  him,  and 
bent  over.  .  .  .  Something  horned  and  black 
slowly  came  to  the  surface.  .  .  . 

*'  A  tree-stump,"— said  the  coachman,  pulling 
away  the  hook. 

"  But  come  back,  come  back!  " — they  shouted 
to  him  from  the  shore. — "  Thou  wilt  accomplish 
nothing  with  the  hooks;  thou  must  use  the 
net." 

"  Yes,  yes,  the  net!  "—chimed  in  others. 

"  Stop,"— said  the  elder;—"  I  've  got  hold  of 
something  also  ....  something  soft,  appar- 
ently,"— he  added,  after  a  brief  pause. 

A  white  spot  made  its  appearance  alongside 
the  boat.  .  .  . 

"The  young  lady!" — suddenly  shouted  the 
elder.-'"Tisshe!" 

He  was  not  mistaken.  .  .  .  The  hook  had 
caught  Marya  Pavlovna  by  the  sleeve  of  her 
gown.  The  coachman  immediately  seized  her, 
dragged  her  out  of  the  water  ....  in  a  couple 
of  powerful  strokes  the  boat  was  at  the  shore. 
....  IpatofF,  Ivan  Hitch,  Vladimir  Sergyeitch, 
all  rushed  to  Marya  Pavlovna,  raised  her  up, 
bore  her  home  in  their  arms,  immediately  un- 
dressed her,  and  began  to  roll  her,  and  warm  her. 
....  But    all    their    efforts,    their    exertions, 

290 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

proved  vain.  .  .  .  Marya  Pavlovna  did  not  come 
to  herself.  .  .  .  Life  had  ah'eady  left  her. 

Early  on  the  following  morning,  Vladimir 
Sergyeitch  left  Ipatovka;  before  his  departure, 
he  went  to  bid  farewell  to  the  dead  woman. 
She  was  lying  on  the  table  in  the  drawing-room 
in  a  white  gown.  .  .  .  Her  thick  hair  was  not  yet 
entirely  dry,  a  sort  of  mournful  surprise  was  ex- 
pressed on  her  pale  face,  which  had  not  had  time 
to  grow  distorted;  her  parted  lips  seemed  to  be 
trying  to  speak,  and  ask  something;  .  .  .  her 
hands,  convulsively  clasped,  as  though  with  grief, 
were  pressed  tight  to  her  breast. . . .  But  with  what- 
ever sorrowful  thought  the  poor  drowned  girl  had 
perished,  death  had  laid  upon  her  the  seal  of  its 
eternal  silence  and  peace  ....  and  who  under- 
stands what  a  dead  face  expresses  during  those 
few  moments  when,  for  the  last  time,  it  meets  the 
glance  of  the  living  before  it  vanishes  forever 
and  is  destroyed  in  the  grave? 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  stood  for  a  while  in  deco- 
rous meditation  before  the  body  of  Marya  Pa- 
vlovna, crossed  himself  thrice,  and  left  the  room, 
without  having  noticed  Ivan  Ilitch  who  was 
weeping  softly  in  one  corner.  .  .  .  And  he 
was  not  the  only  one  who  wept  that  day: 
all  the  servants  in  the  house  wept  bitterly: 
Marya  Pavlovna  had  left  a  good  memory  be- 
hind her. 

The  following  is  what  old  Ipatoff  wrote,  a 
291 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

week  later,  in  reply  to  a  letter  which  had  come, 
at  last,  from  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna : 

"  One  week  ago,  dear  Madam,  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna, 
my  unhappy  sister-in-law,  your  acquaintance,  Marya 
Pa vlovna,  wilfully  ended  her  own  life, by  throwing  herself 
by  night  into  the  pond,  and  we  have  already  committed 
her  body  to  the  earth.  She  decided  upon  this  sad  and  ter- 
rible deed,  without  having  bidden  me  farewell,  without 
leaving  even  a  letter  or  so  much  as  a  note,  to  declare  her 
last  will.  .  .  .  But  you  know  better  than  any  one  else, 
Nadezhda  Alexyeevna,  on  whose  soul  this  great  and 
deadly  sin  must  fall!  May  the  Lord  God  judge  your 
brother,  for  my  sister-in-law  could  not  cease  to  love  him, 
nor  survive  the  separation.  .  .  ." 

Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  received  this  letter  in 
Italy,  whither  she  had  gone  with  her  husband. 
Count  de  Steltchmsky,  as  he  was  called  in  all  the 
hotels.  He  did  not  visit  hotels  alone,  however; 
he  was  frequently  seen  in  gambling-houses,  in 
the  Kur-Saal  at  the  baths.  .  .  .  At  first  he  lost 
a  great  deal  of  money,  then  he  ceased  to  lose,  and 
his  face  assumed  a  peculiar  expression,  not  pre- 
cisely suspicious,  nor  yet  precisely  insolent,  like 
that  which  a  man  has  who  unexpectedly  gets  in- 
volved in  scandals.  .  .  .  He  saw  his  wife  rarely. 
But  Nadezhda  Alexyeevna  did  not  languish  in 
his  absence.  She  developed  a  passion  for  paint- 
ing and  the  fine  arts.  She  associated  chiefly  with 
artists,  and  was  fond  of  discussing  the  beautiful 

292 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

with  young  men.  Ipatoff's  letter  grieved  her 
greatly,  but  did  not  prevent  her  going  that  same 
day  to  "  the  Dogs'  Cave,"  to  see  how  the  poor 
animals  suffocated  when  immersed  in  sulphur 
fumes. 

She  did  not  go  alone.  She  was  escorted  by 
divers  cavaliers.  Among  their  number,  a  certain 
Mr.  Popelin,  an  artist— a  Frenchman,  who  had 
not  finished  his  course — with  a  small  beard,  and 
dressed  in  a  checked  sack-coat,  was  the  most 
agreeable.  He  sang  the  newest  romances  in  a 
thin  tenor  voice,  made  very  free-and-easy  jokes, 
and  although  he  was  gaunt  of  form,  yet  he  ate 
a  very  great  deal. 


VII 

It  was  a  sunny,  cold  January  day;  a  multitude 
of  people  were  strolling  on  the  Nevsky  Pros- 
pekt.  The  clock  on  the  tower  of  the  city  hall 
marked  three  o'clock.  Along  the  broad  stone 
slabs,  strewn  with  yellow  sand,  was  walking, 
among  others,  our  acquaintance  Vladimir  Ser- 
gyeitch  AstakhofF.  He  has  grown  very  virile 
since  we  parted  from  him;  his  face  is  framed  in 
whiskers,  and  he  has  grown  plump  all  over,  but 
he  has  not  aged.  He  was  moving  after  the 
crowd  at  a  leisurely  pace,  and  now  and  then 
casting  a  glance  about  him ;  he  was  expecting  his 

293 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

wife;  she  had  preferred  to  drive  up  in  the  car- 
riage with  her  mother.  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  mar- 
ried five  years  ago,  precisely  in  the  manner  which 
he  had  always  desired:  his  wife  was  wealthy,  and 
with  the  best  of  connections.  Courteously  lifting 
his  splendidly  brushed  hat  when  he  met  his  nu- 
merous acquaintances,  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  was 
still  stepping  out  with  the  free  stride  of  a  man 
who  is  satisfied  with  his  lot,  when  suddenly,  just 
at  the  Passage,^  he  came  near  colliding  with  a 
gentleman  in  a  Spanish  cloak  and  foraging-cap, 
with  a  decidedly  worn  face,  a  dyed  moustache, 
and  large,  swollen  eyes.  Vladimir  Sergyeitch 
drew  aside  with  dignity,  but  the  gentleman  in  the 
foraging-cap  glanced  at  him,  and  suddenly  ex- 
claimed : 

"  Ah!  Mr.  Astakhoff,  how  do  you  do?  " 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  made  no  reply,  and 
stopped  short  in  surprise.  He  could  not  com- 
prehend how  a  gentleman  who  could  bring  him- 
self to  walk  on  the  Nevsky  in  a  foraging-cap 
could  be  acquainted  with  his  name. 

"You  do  not  recognise  me,"— pursued  the  gen- 
tleman in  the  cap:—"  I  saw  you  eight  years  ago, 
in  the  country,  in  the  T***  Government,  at  the 
IpatofFs'.    My  name  is  VeretyefF." 

"Akh!    Good    heavens!    excuse    me!"— ex- 

^A  large  collection  of  shops,  under  one  roof,  extending  from  the 
Nevsky  Prospe'kt  to  the  Bolshaya  Italyanskaya  ("Great  Italian 
Street"),  in  St.  Petersburg.— Translator. 

294 


THE  REGION   OF  DEAD   CALM 

claimed  Vladimir   Sergyeitch.  — "  But  how  you 
have  changed  since  then !  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  I  have  grown  old," — returned  Piotr 
Alexyeitch,  passing  his  hand,  which  was  devoid 
of  a  glove,  over  his  face. — "  But  you  have  not 
changed." 

Veretyeff  had  not  so  much  aged  as  fallen 
away  and  sunk  down.  Small,  delicate  wrinkles 
covered  his  face ;  and  when  he  spoke,  his  lips  and 
cheeks  twitched  slightly.  From  all  this  it  was 
perceptible  that  the  man  had  been  living  hard. 

"  Where  have  you  disappeared  to  all  this  time, 
that  you  have  not  been  visible?  "—Vladimir  Ser- 
gyeitch asked  him. 

"  I  have  been  wandering  about  here  and  there. 
And  you  have  been  in  Petersburg  all  the  while?  " 

"  Yes,  most  of  the  time." 

"  Are  you  married?  " 

"  Yes." 

And  Vladimir  Sergyeitch  assumed  a  rather 
severe  mien,  as  though  with  the  object  of  saying 
to  Veretyeff:  "  My  good  fellow,  don't  take  it  into 
thy  head  to  ask  me  to  present  thee  to  my  wife." 

Veretyeff  understood  him,  apparently.  An 
indifferent  sneer  barely  flitted  across  his  lips. 

"And  how  is  your  sister?  "—inquired  Vladi- 
mir Sergyeitch. — "  Where  is  she?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  for  certain.  She  must  be  in 
Moscow.  I  have  not  received  any  letters  from 
her  this  long  time !  " 

295 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

"  Is  her  husband  alive?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  Mr.  IpatofF?  " 

"  I  don't  know;  probably  he  is  alive  also;  but 
he  may  be  dead." 

"  And  that  gentleman— what  the  deuce  was 
his  name? — Bodryakoff, — what  of  him?  " 

"  The  one  you  invited  to  be  your  second— you 
remember,  when  you  were  so  scared?  Why,  the 
devil  knows! " 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  maintained  silence  for  a 
while,  with  dignity  written  on  his  face. 

"  I  always  recall  with  pleasure  those  even- 
ings,"—he  went  on,—"  when  I  had  the  opportu- 
nity "  (he  had  nearly  said,  "  the  honour  ")  "of 
making  the  acquaintance  of  your  sister  and  your- 
self. She  was  a  very  amiable  person.  And  do 
you  sing  as  agreeably  as  ever?  " 

"  No;  I  have  lost  my  voice.  .  .  .  But  that  was 
a  good  time! " 

"  I  visited  Ipatovka  once  aftenvard,"— added 
Vladimir  Sergyeitch,  elevating  his  eyebrows 
mournfully.  "  I  think  that  was  the  name  of  that 
village— on  the  very  day  of  a  terrible  event.  ..." 

"  Yes,  yes,  that  was  frightful,  frightful,"— 
VeretyefF  hastily  interrupted  him.—"  Yes,  yes. 
And  do  you  remember  how  you  came  near  fight- 
ing with  my  present  brother-in-law?  " 

"  H'm!  I  remember!  "—replied  Vladimir  Ser- 
gyeitch, slowly.—"  However,  I  must  confess  to 

296 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

you  that  so  much  time  has  elapsed  since  then,  that 
all  that  sometimes  seems  to  me  like  a  dream.  .  .  ." 

"  Like  a  dream," — repeated  VeretyefF,  and  his 
pale  cheeks  flushed; — "like  a  dream  ....  no, 
it  was  not  a  dream,  for  me  at  all  events.  It  was 
the  time  of  youth,  of  mirth  and  happiness,  the 
time  of  unlimited  hopes,  and  invincible  powers; 
and  if  it  was  a  dream,  then  it  was  a  very  beau- 
tiful dream.  And  now,  you  and  I  have  grown 
old  and  stupid,  we  dye  our  moustaches,  and 
saunter  on  the  Nevsky,  and  have  become  good 
for  nothing;  like  broken-winded  nags,  we  have 
become  utterly  vapid  and  worn  out;  it  cannot 
be  said  that  we  are  pompous  and  put  on  airs,  nor 
that  we  spend  our  time  in  idleness;  but  I  fear 
we  drown  our  grief  in  drink, — that  is  more  like 
a  dream,  and  a  hideous  dream.  Life  has  been 
lived,  and  lived  in  vain,  clumsily,  vulgarly— that's 
what  is  bitter!  That  's  what  one  would  like  to 
shake  off  like  a  dream,  that  's  what  one  would 
like  to  recover  one's  self  from!  ....  And  then 
....  everywhere,  there  is  one  frightful  memory, 
one  ghost.  .  .  .  But  farewell!  " 

Veretyeff  walked  hastily  away ;  but  on  coming 
opposite  the  door  of  one  of  the  principal  con- 
fectioners on  the  Nevsky,  he  halted,  entered,  and 
after  drinking  a  glass  of  orange  vodka  at  the 
buffet,  he  wended  his  way  through  the  billiard- 
room,  all  dark  and  dim  with  tobacco-smoke,  to 
the  rear  room.    There  he  found  several  acquaint- 

297 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

ances,  his  former  comrades— Petya  Lazurin,  K6- 
stya  Kovrovsky,  and  Prince  SerdiukofF,  and  two 
other  gentlemen  who  were  called  simply  Vasiiik, 
and  Filat.  All  of  them  were  men  no  longer 
young,  though  unmarried ;  some  of  them  had  lost 
their  hair,  others  were  growing  grey;  their  faces 
were  covered  with  wrinkles,  their  chins  had  grown 
double ;  in  a  word,  these  gentlemen  had  all  long 
since  passed  their  prime,  as  the  saying  is.  Yet 
all  of  them  continued  to  regard  VeretyeiF  as  a 
remarkable  man,  destined  to  astonish  the  uni- 
verse; and  he  was  wiser  than  they  only  because 
he  was  very  well  aware  of  his  utter  and  radical 
uselessness.  And  even  outside  of  his  circle,  there 
were  people  who  thought  concerning  him,  that 
if  he  had  not  ruined  himself,  the  deuce  only 
knows  what  he  would  have  made  of  himself.  .  .  . 
These  people  were  mistaken.  Nothing  ever 
comes  of  VeretyefFs. 

Piotr  Alexyeitch's  friends  welcomed  him  with 
the  customary  greetings.  At  first  he  dumb- 
founded them  with  his  gloomy  aspect  and  his 
splenetic  speeches;  but  he  speedily  calmed  down, 
cheered  up,  and  affairs  went  on  in  their  wonted 
rut. 

But  Vladimir  Sergyeitch,  as  soon  as  VeretyefF 
left  him,  contracted  his  brows  in  a  frown  and 
straightened  himself  up.  Piotr  Alexyeitch's  un- 
expected sally  had  astounded,  even  offended 
him  extremely. 

298 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

We  have  grown  stupid,  we  drink  liquor,  we 
dye  our  moustaches  '  .  .  .  .  paries  pour  vouSj 
mon  cherf' — he  said  at  last,  almost  aloud,  and 
emitting  a  couple  of  snorts  caused  by  an  access 
of  involuntary  indignation,  he  was  preparing  to 
continue  his  stroll. 

"  Who  was  that  talking  with  you?  " — rang  out 
a  loud  and  self-confident  voice  behind  him. 

Vladimir  Sergyeitch  turned  round  and  beheld 
one  of  his  best  friends,  a  certain  Mr.  Pomponsky. 
This  Mr.  Pomponsky,  a  man  of  lofty  stature, 
and  stout,  occupied  a  decidedly  important  post, 
and  never  once,  from  his  very  earliest  youth,  had 
he  doubted  himself. 

"  Why,  a  sort  of  eccentric," — said  Vladimir 
Sergyeitch,  linking  his  arm  in  Mr.  Pomponsky 's. 

"  Good  gracious,  Vladimir  Sergyeitch,  is  it 
permissible  for  a  respectable  man  to  chat  on  the 
street  with  an  individual  who  wears  a  foraging- 
cap  on  his  head?  'T  is  indecent!  I  'm  amazed! 
Where  could  you  have  made  acquaintance  with 
such  a  person?  " 

"  In  the  country." 

"  In  the  country.  .  .  .  One  does  not  bow  to 
one's  country  neighbours  in  town  .  .  .  .  ce  nest 
pas  comme  il  faut.  A  gentleman  should  always 
bear  himself  like  a  gentleman  if  he  wishes 
that  .  .  .  ." 

"  Here  is  my  wife," — Vladimir'  Sergyeitch 
hastily  interrupted  him.—"  Let  us  go  to  her." 

299. 


THE  REGION  OF  DEAD  CALM 

And  the  two  gentlemen  directed  their  steps 
to  a  low-hung,  elegant  carriage,  from  whose  win- 
dow there  peered  forth  the  pale,  weary,  and  irri- 
tatingly-arrogant  little  face  of  a  woman  who  was 
still  young,  but  already  faded. 

Behind  her  another  lady,  also  apparently  in  a 
bad  humour,— her  mother, — was  visible.  Vladi- 
mir Sergyeitch  opened  the  door  of  the  carriage, 
and  oiFered  his  arm  to  his  wife.  Pomponsky 
gave  his  to  the  mother-in-law,  and  the  two 
couples  made  their  way  along  the  Nevsky  Pros- 
pekt,  accompanied  by  a  short,  black-haired  foot- 
man in  yellowish-grey  gaiters,  and  with  a  big 
cockade  on  his  hat. 


300 


IT  IS  ENOUGH 

(1864) 


IT  IS  ENOUGH 

A  FRAGMENT  FROM  THE  DIARY  OF 
A  DEAD  ARTIST 


II 


III 


'  ¥T  is  enough,"  I  said  to  myself,  while  my  feet, 
J[  treading  unwillingly  the  steep  slope  of  the 
mountain,  bore  me  downward  toward  the  quiet 
river;  "  it  is  enough,"  I  repeated,  as  I  inhaled  the 
resinous  scent  of  the  pine  grove,  to  which  the  chill 
of  approaching  evening  had  imparted  a  peculiar 
potency  and  pungency;  "it  is  enough,"  I  said 
once  more,  as  I  seated  myself  on  a  mossy  hillock 
directly  on  the  brink  of  the  river  and  gazed  at  its 
dark,  unhurried  waves,  above  which  a  thick 
growth  of  reeds  lifted  their  pale-green  stalks.  .  .  . 
"  It  is  enough!— Have  done  with  dreaming,  with 
striving:  't  is  high  time  to  pull  thyself  together; 

303 


IT  IS  ENOUGH 

't  is  high  time  to  clutch  thy  head  with  both  hands 
and  bid  thy  heart  be  still.  Give  over  pampering 
thyself  with  the  sweet  indulgence  of  indefinite  but 
captivating  sensations;  give  over  running  after 
every  new  form  of  beauty ;  give  over  seizing  every 
tremor  of  its  delicate  and  powerful  pinions. — 
Everything  is  known,  everything  has  been  felt 
over  and  over  again  many  times  already.  ...  I 
am  weary. — What  care  I  that  at  this  very  mo- 
ment the  dawn  is  suffusing  the  sky  ever  more  and 
more  broadly,  like  some  inflamed,  all-conquering 
passion!  What  care  I  that  two  paces  from  me, 
amid  the  tranquillity  and  the  tenderness  and  the 
gleam  of  evening,  in  the  dewy  depths  of  a  mo- 
tionless bush,  a  nightingale  has  suddenly  burst 
forth  in  such  magical  notes  as  though  there  had 
never  been  any  nightingales  in  the  world  before 
it,  and  as  though  it  were  the  first  to  chant  the  first 
song  of  the  first  love!  All  that  has  been,  has 
been,  I  repeat;  it  has  been  recapitulated  a  thou- 
sand times — and  when  one  remembers  that  all 
this  will  so  continue  for  a  whole  eternity — as 
though  to  order,  by  law — one  even  grows  vexed! 
Yes  ....  vexed! " 

IV 

Eh,  how  I  have  suffered!  Formerly  such 
thoughts  never  entered  my  head— formerly,  in 
those  happy  days  when  I  myself  was  wont  to 

304 


IT  IS  ENOUGH 

flame  like  the  glow  of  dawn,  and  to  sing  like  the 
nightingale.— I  must  confess  that  everything  has 
grown  obscure  round  about  me,  all  life  has  with- 
ered. The  light  which  gives  to  its  colours  both 
significance  and  power— that  light  which  ema- 
nates from  the  heart  of  man— has  become  extinct 
within  me. . . .  No,  it  has  not  yet  become  extinct— 
but  it  is  barely  smouldering,  without  radiance 
and  without  warmth.  I  remember  how  one  day, 
late  at  night,  in  Moscow,  I  stepped  up  to  the 
grated  window  of  an  ancient  church  and  leaned 
against  the  uneven  glass.  It  was  dark  under  the 
low  arches;  a  forgotten  shrine-lamp  flickered 
with  a  red  flame  in  front  of  an  ancient  holy 
picture,  and  only  the  lips  of  the  holy  face  were 
visible,  stern  and  sufl"ering:  mournful  gloom 
closed  in  around  and  seemed  to  be  preparing  to 
crush  with  its  dull  weight  the  faint  ray  of  un- 
necessary light.  .  .  .  And  in  my  heart  reign  now 
the  same  sort  of  light  and  the  same  sort  of  gloom. 


And  this  I  write  to  thee— to  thee,  my  only  and 
unforgettable  friend;  to  thee,  my  dear  compan- 
ion,^ whom  I  have  left  forever,  but  whom  I  shall 
never  cease  to  love  until  my  life  ends.  .  .  .  Alas! 
thou  knowest  what  it  was  that  separated  us.  But 
I  will  not  refer  to  that  now.    I  have  left  thee  .  .  . 

^The  Russian  shows  that  a  woman  is  addressed.  — Translator. 

305 


IT  IS  ENOUGH 

but  even  here,  in  this  remote  nook,  at  this  dis- 
tance, in  this  exile,  I  am  all  permeated  with  thee, 
I  am  in  thy  power  as  of  yore,  as  of  yore  I  feel 
the  sweet  pressure  of  thy  hands  upon  my  bowed 
head!— Rising  up  for  the  last  time,  from  the  mute 
grave  in  which  I  now  am  lying,  I  run  a  mild, 
much-moved  glance  over  all  my  past,  over  all 
our  past.  .  .  .  There  is  no  hope  and  no  return, 
but  neither  is  there  any  bitterness  in  me,  or  re- 
gret; and  clearer  than  the  heavenly  azure,  purer 
than  the  first  snows  on  the  mountain  heights,  are 
my  beautiful  memories.  .  .  .  They  do  not  press 
upon  me  in  throngs:  they  pass  by  in  procession, 
like  those  muffled  figures  of  the  Athenian  god- 
born  ones,  which — dost  thou  remember? — we  ad- 
mired so  greatly  on  the  ancient  bas-reliefs  of  the 
Vatican.  .  .  . 

VI 

I  HAVE  just  alluded  to  the  light  which  ema- 
nates from  the  human  heart  and  illumines  every- 
thing which  surrounds  it.  ...  I  want  to  talk  with 
thee  about  that  time  when  that  gracious  light 
burned  in  my  heart.— Listen  ....  but  I  imagine 
that  thou  art  sitting  in  front  of  me,  and  gazing  at 
me  with  thine  affectionate  but  almost  severely- 
attentive  eyes.  O  eyes  never  to  be  forgotten! 
On  whom,  on  what  are  they  now  fixed?  Who  is 
receiving  into  his  soul  thy  glance— that  glance 

306 


IT  IS  ENOUGH 

which  seems  to  flow  from  unfathomable  depths, 
Uke  those  mysterious  springs — Hke  you  both 
bright  and  dark — which  well  up  at  the  very  bot- 
tom of  narrow  valleys,  beneath  overhanging 
cliiFs? Listen. 

VII 

It  was  at  the  end  of  March,  just  before  the  Feast 
of  the  Annunciation,  shortly  after  I  saw  thee 
for  the  first  time — and  before  I  as  yet  suspected 
what  thou  wert  destined  to  become  to  me,  al- 
though I  already  bore  thee,  silently  and  secretly 
in  my  heart.  —  I  was  obliged  to  cross  one  of  the 
largest  rivers  in  Russia.  The  ice  had  not  yet  be- 
gun to  move  in  it,  but  it  seemed  to  have  swollen 
up  and  turned  dark ;  three  days  previously  a  thaw 
had  set  in.  The  snow  was  melting  round  about 
diligently  but  quietly ;  everywhere  water  was  ooz- 
ing out ;  in  the  light  air  a  soundless  breeze  was  rov- 
ing. The  same  even,  milky  hue  enveloped  earth 
and  sky :  it  was  not  a  mist,  but  it  was  not  light ;  not 
a  single  object  stood  out  from  the  general  opac- 
ity; everything  seemed  both  near  and  indistinct. 
Leaving  my  kibitka  far  behind,  I  walked  briskly 
over  the  river-ice,  and  with  the  exception  of  the 
beat  of  my  own  footsteps,  I  could  hear  nothing. 
I  walked  on,  enveloped  on  all  sides  by  the  first 
stupor  and  breath  of  early  spring  ....  and  little 
by  httle  augmenting  with  every  step,  with  every 

307 


IT  IS  ENOUGH 

movement  in  advance,  there  gradually  rose  up  and 
grew  within  me  a  certain  joyous  incomprehensi- 
ble agitation.  ...  It  drew  me  on,  it  hastened  my 
pace — and  so  powerful  were  its  transports,  that 
I  came  to  a  standstill  at  last  and  looked  about  me 
in  surprise  and  questioningly,  as  though  desirous 
of  detecting  the  outward  cause  of  my  ecstatic  con- 
dition. .  . .  All  was  still,  white,  sunny;  but  I  raised 
my  eyes:  high  above  flocks  of  migratory  birds 
were  flying  past. ..."  Spring!  Hail,  Spring!  " — 
I  shouted  in  a  loud  voice.  "  Hail,  life  and  love 
and  happiness!  " — And  at  that  same  instant,  with 
sweetly-shattering  force,  similar  to  the  flower  of 
a  cactus,  there  suddenly  flared  up  within  me  thy 
image — flared  up  and  stood  there,  enchantingly 
clear  and  beautiful— and  I  understood  that  I 
loved  thee,  thee  alone,  that  I  was  all  filled  with 
thee.  ... 

VIII 

I  THINK  of  thee  .  .  .  and  many  other  memories, 
other  pictures  rise  up  before  me, — and  thou  art 
everywhere,  on  all  the  paths  of  my  life  I  en- 
counter thee.— Now  there  presents  itself  to  me 
an  old  Russian  garden  on  the  slope  of  a  hill,  il- 
luminated by  the  last  rays  of  the  summer  sun. 
From  behind  silvery  poplars  peeps  forth  the 
wooden  roof  of  the  manor-house,  with  a  slender 
wreath  of  crimson  smoke  hanging  above  the  white 

308 


IT  IS  ENOUGH 

chimney,  and  in  the  fence  a  wicket-gate  stands 
open  a  crack,  as  though  some  one  had  pulled  it 
to  with  undecided  hand.  And  I  stand  and  wait, 
and  gaze  at  that  gate  and  at  the  sand  on  the  gar- 
den paths ;  I  wonder  and  I  am  moved :  everything 
I  see  seems  to  me  remarkable  and  new,  every- 
thing is  enveloped  with  an  atmosphere  of  a  sort 
of  bright,  caressing  mystery,  and  abeady  I  think 
I  hear  the  swift  rustle  of  footsteps ;  and  I  stand, 
all  alert  and  light,  like  a  bird  which  has  just 
folded  its  wings  and  is  poised  ready  to  soar  aloft 
again — and  my  heart  flames  and  quivers  in  joy- 
ous dread  before  the  imminent  happiness  which 
is  flitting  on  in  front. . . . 

IX 

Then  I  behold  an  ancient  cathedral  in  a  distant, 
beautiful  land.  The  kneeling  people  are  crowded 
close  in  rows;  a  prayerful  chill,  something  sol- 
emn and  sad  breathes  forth  from  the  lofty,  bare 
vault,  from  the  huge  pillars  which  branch  up- 
ward.—Thou  art  standing  by  my  side,  speechless 
and  unsympathetic,  exactly  as  though  thou  wert 
a  stranger  to  me;  every  fold  of  thy  dark  gown 
hangs  motionless,  as  though  sculptured;  motion- 
less lie  the  mottled  reflections  of  the  coloured 
windows  at  thy  feet  on  the  well-worn  flagstones. 
— And  now,  vigorously  agitating  the  air  dim 
with  incense,  inwardly  agitating  us,  in  a  heavy 

309 


IT  IS  ENOUGH 

surge  the  tones  of  the  organ  roll  out;  and  thou 
hast  turned  pale  and  drawn  thyself  up ;  thy  gaze 
has  touched  me,  has  slipped  on  higher  and  is 
raised  heavenward; — but  it  seems  to  me  that  only 
a  deathless  soul  can  look  like  that  and  with  such 
eyes.  ... 

X 

Now  another  picture  presents  itself  to  me.— 'T  is 
not  an  ancient  temple  which  crushes  us  with  its 
stern  magnificence :  the  low  walls  of  a  cosey  httle 
room  separate  us  from  the  whole  world. — What 
am  I  saying?  We  are  alone— alone  in  all  the 
world;  except  us  two  there  is  no  living  thing; 
beyond  those  friendly  walls  lie  darkness  and 
death  and  emptiness.  That  is  not  the  wind  howl- 
ing, that  is  not  the  rain  streaming  in  floods;  it 
is  Chaos  wailing  and  groaning ;  it  is  its  blind  eyes 
weeping.  But  with  us  all  is  quiet  and  bright,  and 
warm  and  gracious;  something  diverting,  some- 
thing childishly  innocent  is  fluttering  about  like 
a  butterfly,  is  it  not  ?  We  nestle  up  to  each  other, 
we  lean  our  heads  together  and  both  read  a  good 
book;  I  feel  the  slender  vein  in  thy  delicate  tem- 
ple beating;  I  hear  how  thou  art  living,  thou 
hearest  how  I  am  living,  thy  smile  is  born  upon 
my  face  before  it  comes  on  thine;  thou  silently 
repliest  to  my  silent  question;  thy  thoughts,  my 
thoughts,  are  like  the  two  wings  of  one  and  the 

310 


IT  IS  ENOUGH 

same  bird  drowned  in  the  azure.  .  .  The  last  par- 
titions have  fallen— and  our  love  has  become  so 
calm,  so  profound,  every  breach  has  vanished  so 
completely,  leaving  no  trace  behind  it,  that  we  do 
not  even  wish  to  exchange  a  word,  a  glance.  .  .  . 
We  only  wish  to  breathe,  to  breathe  together,  to 
live  together,  to  be  together,  .  .  .  and  not  even 
to  be  conscious  of  the  fact  that  we  are  to- 
gether. .  .  . 

XI 

Or,  in  conclusion,  there  presents  itself  to  me  a 
clear  September  morning  when  thou  and  I  were 
walking  together  through  the  deserted  garden,  as 
yet  not  wholly  out  of  bloom,  of  an  abandoned 
palace,  on  the  bank  of  a  great  non-Russian  river, 
beneath  the  soft  radiance  of  a  cloudless  sky.  Oh, 
how  shall  I  describe  those  sensations? — that  end- 
lessly-flowing river,  that  absence  of  people,  and 
tranquilHty,  and  joy,  and  a  certain  intoxicating 
sadness,  and  the  vibration  of  happiness,  the  un- 
familiar, monotonous  town,  the  autumnal  croak- 
ing of  the  daws  in  the  tall,  bright  trees— and 
those  affectionate  speeches  and  smiles  and 
glances  long  and  soft,  which  pierce  to  the  very 
bottom,  and  beauty,— the  beauty  in  ourselves, 
round  about,  everywhere;— it  is  beyond  words. 
Oh,  bench  on  which  we  sat  in  silence,  with  heads 
drooping  low  with  happiness— I  shall  never  for- 

311 


IT  IS  ENOUGH 

get  thee  to  my  dying  hour!— How  charming 
were  those  rare  passers-by  with  their  gentle 
greeting  and  kind  faces,  and  the  large,  quiet 
boats  which  floated  past  (on  one  of  them— 
dost  thou  remember? — stood  a  horse  gazing  pen- 
sively at  the  water  gliding  by  under  its  feet) ,  the 
childish  babble  of  the  little  waves  inshore  and  the 
very  barking  of  distant  dogs  over  the  expanse  of 
the  river,  the  very  shouts  of  the  corpulent  under- 
officer  at  the  red-cheeked  recruits  drilling  there 
on  one  side,  with  their  projecting  elbows  and  their 
legs  thrust  forward  like  the  legs  of  cranes!  .  .  . 
We  both  felt  that  there  never  had  been  and  never 
would  be  anything  better  in  the  world  for  us  than 
those  moments — than  all  the  rest.  .  .  .  But  what 
comparisons  are  these!  Enough  ....  enough.  .  . . 
Alas !  yes :  it  is  enough. 

XII 

For  the  last  time  I  have  surrendered  myself  to 
these  memories,  and  I  am  parting  from  them  irre- 
vocably— as  a  miser,  after  gloating  for  the  last 
time  upon  his  hoard,  his  gold,  his  bright  trea- 
sure, buries  it  in  the  damp  earth;  as  the  wick  of 
an  exhausted  lamp,  after  flashing  up  in  one  last 
brilhant  flame,  becomes  covered  with  grey  ashes. 
The  httle  wild  animal  has  peered  forth  for  the 
last  time  from  his  lair  at  the  velvety  grass,  at  the 
fair  little  sun,  at  the  blue,  gracious  waters,— and 

312 


IT  IS  ENOUGH 

has  retreated  to  the  deepest  level,  and  curled  him- 
self up  in  a  ball,  and  fallen  asleep.  Will  he  have 
visions,  if  only  in  his  sleep,  of  the  fair  little  sun, 
and  the  grass,  and  the  blue,  gracious  waters? 


XIII 

Sternly  and  ruthlessly  does  Fate  lead  each  one 
of  us— and  only  in  the  early  days  do  we,  occu- 
pied with  all  sorts  of  accidents,  nonsense,  our- 
selves, fail  to  feel  her  harsh  hand.  — So  long  as 
we  are  able  to  deceive  ourselves  and  are  not 
ashamed  to  lie,  it  is  possible  to  live  and  to  hope 
without  shame.  The  truth— not  the  full  truth 
(there  can  be  no  question  of  that),  but  even  that' 
tiny  fraction  which  is  accessible  to  us — immedi- 
ately closes  our  mouths,  binds  our  hands,  and  re- 
duces "  to  negation." — The  only  thing  that  is 
then  left  for  a  man,  in  order  to  keep  erect  on  his 
feet  and  not  crumble  to  dust,  not  to  become  be- 
mired  in  the  ooze  of  self-f orgetfulness, ...  is  self- 
scorn  ;  is  to  turn  calmly  away  from  everything  and 
say:  "It  is  enough!" — and  folding  his  useless 
arms  on  his  empty  breast  to  preserve  the  last,  the 
sole  merit  which  is  accessible  to  him,  the  merit  of 
recognising  his  own  insignificance;  the  merit  to 
which  Pascal  alludes,  when,  calling  man  a  think- 

313 


IT  IS  ENOUGH 

ing  reed,  he  says  that  if  the  entire  universe  were 
to  crush  him,  he,  that  reed,  would  still  be  higher 
than  the  universe  because  he  would  know  that  it 
is  crushing  him — while  it  would  not  know  that. 
A  feeble  merit!  Sad  consolation!  Try  as  thou 
mayest  to  permeate  thyself  with  it,  to  believe 
in  it,— oh,  thou  my  poor  brother,  whosoever  thou 
mayest  be!— thou  canst  not  refute  those  ominous 
words  of  the  poet : 

Life  ""s  but  a  walking  shadow,  a  poor  player 
That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage 
And  then  is  heard  no  more:  it  is  a  tale 
Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury, 
Signifying  nothing.   .    .^ 

I  have  cited  the  verses  from  "  Macbeth,"  and  those 
witches,  phantoms,  visions  have  recurred  to  my 
mind.  .  .  .  Alas!  it  is  not  visions,  not  fantastic, 
subterranean  powers  that  are  terrible;  the  crea- 
tions of  Hoffmann  are  not  dreadful,  under  what- 
soever form  they  may  present  themselves.  .  .  . 
The  terrible  thing  is  that  there  is  nothing  terri- 
ble, that  the  very  substance  of  life  itself  is  petty, 
uninteresting — and  insipid  to  beggary.  Having 
once  become  permeated  with  this  consciousness, 
having  once  tasted  of  this  wormwood,  no  honey 
will  ever  seem  sweet — and  even  that  loftiest, 
sweetest  happiness,  the  happiness  of  love,  of 
complete   friendship,   of  irrevocable  devotion — 

I  "  Macbeth,"  Act  V,  scene  v. 

.314 


IT  IS  ENOUGH 

even  it  loses  all  its  charm;  all  its  worth  is  anni- 
hilated by  its  own  pettiness,  its  brevity.  Well, 
yes:  a  man  has  loved,  he  has  burned,  he  has  fal- 
tered words  about  eternal  bliss,  about  immortal 
enjoyments — and  behold:  it  is  long,  long  since 
the  last  trace  vanished  of  that  worm  which  has 
eaten  out  the  last  remnants  of  his  withered 
tongue.  Thus  late  in  autumn,  on  a  frosty  day, 
when  everything  is  lifeless  and  dumb  in  the  last 
blades  of  grass,  on  the  verge  of  the  denuded  for- 
est, the  sun  has  but  to  emerge  for  an  instant  from 
the  fog,  to  gaze  intently  at  the  chilled  earth,  and 
immediately,  from  all  sides,  gnats  rise  up;  they 
frolic  in  the  warmth  of  his  rays,  they  bustle  and 
jostle  upward,  downward,  they  circle  round  one 
another.  .  .  .  The  sun  hides  himself,  and  the  gnats 
fall  to  the  earth  in  a  soft  rain — and  there  is  an 
end  to  their  momentary  life. 


XIV 

"  But  are  there  no  great  conceptions,  no  great 
words  of  consolation  ?  Nationality,  right,  liberty, 
humanity,  art?  "  Yes;  those  words  do  exist,  and 
many  people  live  by  them  and  for  them.  But 
nevertheless,  I  have  an  idea  that  if  Shakspeare 
were  to  be  born  again  he  would  find  no  occasion 
to  disclaim  his  "  Hamlet,"  his  "  Lear."  His  pene- 
trating glance  would  not  descry  anything  new  in 

315 


IT  IS  ENOUGH 

human  existence :  the  same  motley  and,  in  reality, 
incoherent  picture  would  still  unfold  itself  before 
him  in  its  disquieting  monotony.  The  same  fri- 
volity, the  same  cruelty,  the  same  pressing  de- 
mand for  blood,  gold,  filth,  the  same  stale  plea- 
sures, the  same  senseless  sufferings  in  the  name 
of  ...  .  well,  in  the  name  of  the  same  nonsense 
which  was  ridiculed  by  Aristophanes  three  thou- 
sand years  ago,  the  same  coarse  lures  to  which  the 
many-headed  beast  still  yields  as  readily  as  ever 
— in  a  word,  the  same  anxious  skipping  of  the 
squirrel  in  the  same  old  wheel,  which  has  not  even 
been  renewed.  .  .  .  Shakspeare  would  again  make 
Lear  repeat  his  harsh:  "There  are  no  guilty 
ones  " — which,  in  other  words,  signifies:  "  There 
are  no  just"— and  he  also  would  say:  "It  is 
enough!"  and  he  also  would  turn  away.  —  One 
thing  only:  perhaps,  in  contrast  to  the  gloomy, 
tragic  tyrant  Richard,  the  ironical  genius  of  the 
great  poet  would  like  to  draw  another,  more  up- 
to-date  tyrant,  who  is  almost  ready  to  believe 
in  his  own  virtue  and  rests  calmly  at  night  or 
complains  of  the  over-dainty  dinner  at  the  same 
time  that  his  half -stifled  victims  are  endeavour- 
ing to  comfort  themselves  by  at  least  imagining 
him  as  Richard  III.  surrounded  by  the  ghosts 
of  the  people  he  has  murdered.  .  .  . 

But  to  what  purpose? 

Why  demonstrate — and  that  by  picking  and 
weighing  one's  words,  by  rounding  and  polishing 

316 


IT  IS  ENOUGH 

one's  speech— why  demonstrate  to  gnats  that 
they  really  are  gnats? 

XV 

But  art?  .  .  .  Beauty?  .  .  .  Yes,  those  are  mighty 
words;  they  are,  probably,  mightier  than  those 
which  I  have  mentioned  above.  The  Venus  of 
Melos,  for  example,  is  more  indubitable  than  the 
Roman  law,  or  than  the  principles  of  1789.  Men 
may  retort— and  how  many  times  have  I  heard 
these  retorts! — that  beauty  itself  is  also  a  matter 
of  convention,  that  to  the  Chinese  it  presents  it- 
self in  a  totally  different  manner  from  what  it 
does  to  the  European.  .  .  .  But  it  is  not  the  con- 
ventionality of  art  which  disconcerts  me;  its  per- 
ishableness,  and  again  its  perishableness, — its 
decay  and  dust — that  is  what  deprives  me  of 
courage  and  of  faith.  Art,  at  any  given  mo- 
ment, is,  I  grant,  more  powerful  than  Nature  it- 
self, because  in  it  there  is  neither  symphony  of 
Beethoven  nor  picture  of  Ruysdael  nor  poem  of 
Goethe — and  only  dull-witted  pedants  or  con- 
scienceless babblers  can  still  talk  of  art  as  a  copy 
of  Nature.  But  in  the  long  run  Nature  is  ir- 
resistible; she  cannot  be  hurried,  and  sooner  or 
later  she  will  assert  her  rights.  Unconsciously 
and  infallibly  obedient  to  law,  she  does  not  know 
art,  as  she  does  not  know  liberty,  as  she  does  not 
know  good ;  moving  onward  from  eternity,  trans- 

317 


IT  IS  ENOUGH 

mitted  from  eternity,  she  tolerates  nothing  im- 
mortal, nothing  unchangeable.  .  .  .  Man  is  her 
child;  but  the  human,  the  artificial  is  inimical  to 
her,  precisely  because  she  strives  to  be  unchange- 
able and  immortal.  Man  is  the  child  of  Nature; 
but  she  is  the  universal  mother,  and  she  has  no 
preferences :  everything  which  exists  in  her  bosom 
has  arisen  only  for  the  benefit  of  another  and 
must,  in  due  time,  make  way  for  that  other — she 
creates  by  destroying,  and  it  is  a  matter  of  perfect 
indifference  to  her  what  she  creates,  what  she  de- 
stroys, if  only  life  be  not  extirpated,  if  only  death 
do  not  lose  its  rights.  .  .  .  And  therefore  she  as 
calmly  covers  with  mould  the  divine  visage  of 
Phidias's  Jupiter  as  she  does  a  plain  pebble,  and 
delivers  over  to  be  devoured  by  the  contemned 
moth  the  most  precious  lines  of  Sophocles.  Men, 
it  is  true,  zealously  aid  her  in  her  work  of  exter- 
mination; but  is  not  the  same  elementary  force, — 
is  not  the  force  of  Nature  shown  in  the  finger  of 
the  barbarian  who  senselessly  shattered  the  radiant 
brow  of  Apollo,  in  the  beast-like  howls  with  which 
he  hurled  the  picture  of  Apelles  into  the  fire? 
How  are  we  poor  men,  poor  artists,  to  come  to 
an  agreement  with  this  deaf  and  dumb  force, 
blind  from  its  birth,  which  does  not  even  triumph 
in  its  victories,  but  marches,  ever  marches  on 
ahead,  devouring  all  things?  How  are  we  to 
stand  up  against  those  heavy,  coarse,  intermina- 
bly and  incessantly  onrolling  waves,  how  believe, 

318 


IT  IS  ENOUGH 

in  short,  in  the  significance  and  worth  of  those 
perishable  images  which  we,  in  the  darkness,  on 
the  verge  of  the  abyss,  mould  from  the  dust  and 
for  a  mere  instant? 

XVI 

All  this  is  so  ... .  but  only  the  transitory  is  beau- 
tiful, Shakspeare  has  said ;  and  Nature  herself,  in 
the  unceasing  play  of  her  rising  and  vanishing 
forms,  does  not  shun  beauty.  Is  it  not  she  who 
sedulously  adorns  the  most  momentary  of  her 
offspring— the  petals  of  the  flowers,  the  wings 
of  the  butterfly — with  such  charming  colours? 
Is  it  not  she  who  imparts  to  them  such  exquisite 
outhnes?  It  is  not  necessary  for  beauty  to  Uve 
forever  in  order  to  be  imjnortal— one  moment  is 
sufficient  for  it.  That  is  so;  that  is  just,  I  grant 
you — but  only  in  cases  where  there  is  no  per- 
sonality, where  man  is  not,  liberty  is  not:  the 
faded  wing  of  the  butterfly  comes  back  again,  and 
a  thousand  years  later,  with  the  selfsame  wing 
of  the  selfsame  butterfly,  necessity  sternly  and 
regularly  and  impartially  fulfils  its  round  .... 
but  man  does  not  repeat  himself  like  the  butter- 
fly, and  the  work  of  his  hands,  his  art,  his  free 
creation  once  destroyed,  is  annihilated  forever. 
.  .  .  To  him  alone  is  it  given  to  "  create  "  .  .  .  .  but 
it  is  strange  and  terrible  to  articulate:  "  We  are 
creators  ....  for  an  hour," — as  there  once  was, 

319 


IT  IS  ENOUGH 

they  say,  a  caliph  for  an  hour. — Therein  Hes  our 
supremacy— and  our  curse:  each  one  of  these 
"  creators  "  in  himself —precisely  he,  not  any  one 
else,  precisely  that  ego — seems  to  have  been  cre- 
ated with  deliberate  intent,  on  a  plan  previously 
designed;  each  one  more  or  less  dimly  under- 
stands his  significance,  feels  that  he  is  akin  to 
something  higher,  something  eternal — and  he 
lives,  he  is  bound  to  live  in  the  moment  and  for 
the  moment.^  Sit  in  the  mud,  my  dear  fellow, 
and  strive  toward  heaven! — The  greatest  among 
us  are  precisely  those  who  are  the  most  pro- 
foundly conscious  of  all  of  that  fundamental 
contradiction;  but  in  that  case  the  question 
arises, — are  the  words  "  greatest,  great  "  appro- 
priate? 

XVII 

But  what  shall  be  said  of  those  to  whom,  despite 
a  thorough  desire  to  do  so,  one  cannot  apply  those 
appellations  even  in  the  sense  which  is  attributed 
to  them  by  the  feeble  human  tongue?— \N  lat  shall 
be  said  of  the  ordinary,  commonplace,  second- 
rate,  third-rate  toilers— whoever  they  may  be— 
statesmen,   learned  men,   artists— especially  ar- 

^  How  can  one  fail  to  recall  at  this  point  the  words  of  Mephistophe- 
les  in  "Faust": 

"  Er  (Gott)  findet  sich  in  einen  ew'gen  Glanze, 
Uns  hat  er  in  die  Finsterniss  gebracht— 
Und  euch  taugt  einzig  Tag  und  Nacht." 

320 


IT  IS  ENOUGH 

tists?  How  force  them  to  shake  off  their  dumb 
indolence,  their  dejected  perplexity,  how  draw 
them  once  more  to  the  field  of  battle,  if  once  the 
thought  as  to  the  vanity  of  everything  human,  of 
every  activity  which  sets  for  itself  a  higher  aim 
than  the  winning  of  daily  bread,  has  once  crept 
into  their  heads  ?  By  what  wreaths  are  they  lured 
on — they,  for  whom  laurels  and  thorns  have  be- 
come equally  insignificant?  Why  should  they 
again  subject  themselves  to  the  laughter  of  "  the 
cold  throng  "  or  to  "  the  condemnation  of  the 
dunce," — of  the  old  dunce  who  cannot  forgive 
them  for  having  turned  away  from  the  former 
idols ;  of  the  young  dunce  who  demands  that  they 
shall  immediately  go  down  on  their  knees  in  his 
company,  that  they  should  lie  prone  before  new, 
just-discovered  idols?  Why  shall  they  betake 
themselves  again  to  that  rag-fair  of  phantoms, 
to  that  market-place  where  both  the  seller  and  the 
buyer  cheat  each  other  equally,  where  everything 
is  so  noisy,  so  loud — and  yet  so  poor  and  worth- 
less? Why  "with  exhaustion  in  their  bones" 
shall  they  interweave  themselves  again  with  that 
world  where  the  nations,  like  peasant  urchins  on 
a  festival  day,  flounder  about  in  the  mud  for  the 
sake  of  a  handful  of  empty  nuts,  or  admire  with 
gaping  mouths  the  wretched  woodcuts,  decorated 
with  tinsel  gold,— with  that  world  where  they  had 
no  right  to  life  while  they  lived  in  it,  and,  deafen- 
ing themselves  with  their  own  shouts,  each  one 

321 


IT  IS  ENOUGH 

hastens  with  convulsive  speed  to  a  goal  which  he 
neither  knows  nor  understands  ?  No  ....  no  ... . 
It  is  enough  ....  enough  ....  enough ! 


XVIII 

. .  .  The  rest  is  silence.^  .  .  . 

*  This  is  in  English  in  the  original.  —Translator. 


322 


THE  DOG 

(1866) 


THE  DOG 

BUT  if  we  can  admit  the  possibility  of  the 
supernatural,  the  possibility  of  its  interven- 
tion in  real  life, — then  allow  me  to  inquire,  what 
role  is  sound  judgment  bound  to  play  after 
this?" — shouted  Anton  Stepanitch,  crossing  his 
arms  on  his  stomach. 

Anton  Stepanitch  had  held  the  rank  of  State 
Councillor,^  had  served  in  some  wonderful  de- 
partment, and,  as  his  speech  was  interlarded  with 
pauses  and  was  slow  and  uttered  in  a  bass  voice, 
he  enjoyed  universal  respect.  Not  long  before 
the  date  of  our  story,  "  the  good-for-nothing  lit- 
tle Order  of  St.  Stanislas  had  been  stuck  on  him," 
as  those  who  envied  him  expressed  it. 

"  That  is  perfectly  just,"— remarked  Skvore- 
vitch. 

"  No  one  will  dispute  that,"— added  Kinare- 
vitch. 

"  I  assent  also,"— chimed  in,  in  falsetto,  from 
a  corner  the  master  of  the  house,  Mr.  Finoplen- 
toff. 

^  The  fifth  (from  the  top)  of  the  fourteen  grades  in  the  Table  of 
Ranlcs,  instituted  by  Peter  the  Great,  which  were  to  be  won  by  ser- 
vice to  the  State.— Translator. 

825 


THE  DOG 

"  But  I,  I  must  confess,  cannot  assent,  be- 
cause something  supernatural  has  happened  to 
me," — said  a  man  of  medium  stature  and  mid- 
dle age,  with  a  protruding  abdomen  and  a 
bald  spot,  who  had  been  sitting  silent  before 
the  stove  up  to  that  moment.  The  glances 
of  all  present  in  the  room  were  turned  upon 
him  with  curiosity  and  surprise— and  silence 
reigned. 

This  man  was  a  landed  proprietor  of  Kaluga, 
not  wealthy,  who  had  recently  come  to  Peters- 
burg. He  had  once  served  in  the  hussars,  had 
gambled  away  his  property,  resigned  from  the 
service  and  settled  down  in  the  country.  The  re- 
cent agricultural  changes  had  cut  off  his  reve- 
nues, and  he  had  betaken  himself  to  the  capital 
in  search  of  a  snug  little  position.  He  possessed 
no  abilities,  and  had  no  influential  connections; 
but  he  placed  great  reliance  on  the  friendship  of 
an  old  comrade  in  the  service,  who  had  suddenly, 
without  rhyme  or  reason,  become  a  person  of  im- 
portance, and  whom  he  had  once  aided  to  ad- 
minister a  sound  thrashing  to  a  card-sharper. 
Over  and  above  that  he  counted  upon  his  own 
luck— and  it  had  not  betrayed  him;  several  days 
later  he  obtained  the  post  of  inspector  of  govern- 
ment storehouses,  a  profitable,  even  honourable 
position,  which  did  not  require  extraordinary  tal- 
ents: the  storehouses  themselves  existed  only  in 
contemplation,  and  no  one  even  knew  with  cer- 

826 


THE  DOG 

tainty  what  they  were  to  contain,— but  they  had 
been  devised  as  a  measure  of  governmental  econ- 
omy. 

Anton  Stepanitch  was  the  first  to  break  the 
general  silence. 

"  What,  my  dear  sir?  " — he  began.  "  Do  you 
seriously  assert  that  something  supernatural— I 
mean  to  say,  incompatible  with  the  laws  of  nature 
— has  happened  to  you?  " 

"  I  do," — returned  "  my  dear  sir,"  whose  real 
name  was  Porfiry  Kapitonitch. 

"  Incompatible  with  the  laws  of  nature?  " — 
energetically  repeated  Anton  Stepanitch,  who  ev- 
idently liked  that  phrase. 

"  Precisely  ....  yes;  precisely  the  sort  of  thing 
you  allude  to." 

"  This  is  astonishing!  What  think  you,  gen- 
tlemen? " — Anton  Stepanitch  endeavoured  to 
impart  to  his  features  an  ironical  expression,  but 
without  result — or,  to  speak  more  accurately,  the 
only  result  was  to  produce  the  effect  that  Mr. 
State  Councillor  smelt  a  bad  odour.  — "  Will  not 
you  be  so  kind,  my  dear  sir," — he  went  on,  ad- 
dressing the  landed  proprietor  from  Kaluga, — 
"  as  to  communicate  to  us  the  particulars  of  such  a 
curious  event?  " 

"  Why  not?  Certainly!  " — replied  the  landed 
proprietor,  and  moving  forward  to  the  middle 
of  the  room  in  an  easy  manner,  he  spoke  as  fol- 
lows: 

327 


THE  DOG 

I  HAVE,  gentlemen,  as  you  are  probably  aware, 
— or  as  you  may  not  be  aware, — a  small  estate  in 
Kozyol  County.  I  formerly  derived  some  profit 
from  it— but  now,  of  course,  nothing  but  unplea- 
santness is  to  be  anticipated.  However,  let  us 
put  politics  aside !  Well,  sir,  on  that  same  estate 
I  have  a  "wee  little"  manor:  a  vegetable  gar- 
den, as  is  proper,  a  tiny  pond  with  little  carp, 
and  some  sort  of  buildings — well,  and  a  small 
wing  for  my  own  sinful  body.  ...  I  am  a  bach- 
elor. So,  sir,  one  day — about  six  years  ago— I 
had  returned  home  rather  late ;  I  had  been  playing 
cards  at  a  neighbour's  house— but  I  beg  you  to 
observe,  I  was  not  tipsy,  as  the  expression  goes. 
I  undressed,  got  into  bed,  and  blew  out  the  light. 
And  just  imagine,  gentlemen;  no  sooner  had  I 
blown  out  the  light,  than  something  began  to 
rummage  under  my  bed!  Is  it  a  rat?  I  thought. 
No,  it  was  not  a  rat:  it  clawed  and  fidgeted  and 

scratched  itself At  last  it  began  to  flap  its 

ears ! 

It  was  a  dog— that  was  clear.  But  where  had 
the  dog  come  from?  I  keep  none  myself.  "  Can 
some  stray  animal  have  run  in?  "  I  thought.  I 
called  to  my  servant;  his  name  is  Filka.  The 
man  entered  with  a  candle. 

"  What 's  this,"— says  I,—"  my  good  Filka? 
How  lax  thou  art!  A  dog  has  intruded  himself 
under  my  bed." 

328 


THE  DOG 

"What  dog?"— says  he. 

"How  should  I  know?"— says  I;— "that's 
thy  affair — not  to  allow  thy  master  to  be  dis- 
turbed." 

My  Filka  bent  down,  and  began  to  pass  the 
candle  about  under  the  bed. 

"Why," — says  he, — "there  's  no  dog  here." 

I  bent  down  also ;  in  fact  there  was  no  dog.  .  .  . 
Here  was  a  marvel  1  I  turned  my  eyes  on  Filka : 
he  was  smiling. 

"  Fool,"— said  I  to  him,—"  what  art  thou  grin- 
ning about?  When  thou  didst  open  the  door  the 
dog  probably  took  and  sneaked  out  into  the  ante- 
room. But  thou,  gaper,  didst  notice  nothing, 
because  thou  art  eternally  asleep.  Can  it  be  that 
thou  thinkest  I  am  drunk?  " 

He  attempted  to  reply,  but  I  drove  him  out, 
curled  myself  up  in  a  ring,  and  heard  nothing 
more  that  night. 

But  on  the  following  night — just  imagine! — 
the  same  thing  was  repeated.  No  sooner  had  I 
blown  out  the  hght  than  it  began  to  claw  and  flap 
its  ears.  Again  I  summoned  Filka,  again  he 
looked  under  the  bed — again  nothing!  I  sent 
him  away,  blew  out  the  light— phew,  damn  it! 
there  was  the  dog  still.  And  a  dog  it  certainly 
was :  I  could  hear  it  breathing  and  rummaging  in 
its  hair  with  its  teeth  in  search  of  fleas  ...  so 
plainly ! 

329 


THE  DOG 

"  Filka!  "— says  I,—"  come  hither  without  a 

light!  "...  He  entered "  WeU,  now,"-says 

I,  "dost  thou  hear?  .  .  ." 

"  I  do,"— said  he.  I  could  not  see  him,  but  I 
felt  that  the  fellow  was  quailing. 

"  What  dost  thou  make  of  it?  "—said  I. 

"  What  dost  thou  command  me  to  make  of  it, 
Porfiry  Kapitonitch?  ...  'T  is  an  instigation  of 
the  Evil  One!" 

"  Thou  art  a  lewd  fellow ;  hold  thy  tongue  with 
thy  instigation  of  the  Evil  One."  .  .  .  But  the 
voices  of  both  of  us  were  like  those  of  birds,  and 
we  were  shaking  as  though  in  a  fever— in  the 
darkness.  I  lighted  a  candle:  there  was  no  dog, 
and  no  noise  whatever— only  Filka  and  I  as 
white  as  clay.  And  I  must  inform  you,  gentle- 
men—you can  believe  me  or  not— but  from  that 
night  forth  for  the  space  of  six  weeks  the  same 
thing  went  on.  At  last  I  even  got  accustomed  to 
it  and  took  to  extinguishing  my  light  because  I 
cannot  sleep  with  a  light.  "  Let  him  fidget!  "  I 
thought.    "  It  does  n't  harm  me." 

"But— I  see — that  you  do  not  belong  to  the 
cowardly  squad,"— interrupted  Anton  Stepa- 
nitch,  with  a  half -scornful,  half -condescending 
laugh.  "  The  hussar  is  immediately  perceptible !  " 

"  I  should  not  be  frightened  at  you,  in  any 
case," — said  Porfiry  Kapitonitch,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment he  really  did  look  Hke  a  hussar.—"  But  lis- 
ten further." 

830 


THE  DOG 

A  neighbour  came  to  me,  the  same  one  with 
whom  I  was  in  the  habit  of  playing  cards.  He 
dined  with  me  on  what  God  had  sent,  and  lost 
fifty  rubles  to  me  for  his  visit ;  night  was  drawing 
on — it  was  time  for  him  to  go.  But  I  had  cal- 
culations of  my  own: — "  Stop  and  spend  the 
night  with  me,  Vasily  Vasilitch;  to-morrow  thou 
wilt  win  it  back,  God  willing." 

My  Vasily  VasiUtch  pondered  and  pondered — 
and  stayed.  I  ordered  a  bed  to  be  placed  for 
him  in  my  own  chamber.  .  .  .  Well,  sir,  we  went 
to  bed,  smoked,  chattered, — chiefly  about  the  fem- 
inine sex,  as  is  fitting  in  bachelor  society,— and 
laughed,  as  a  matter  of  course.  I  look;  Vasily 
Vasilitch  has  put  out  his  candle  and  has  turned 
his  back  on  me;  that  signifies:  "Schlafen  Sie 
wohl."  I  waited  a  little  and  extinguished  my 
candle  also.  And  imagine:  before  I  had  time  to 
think  to  myself,  "  What  sort  of  performance  will 
there  be  now? "  my  dear  little  animal  began  to 
make  a  row.  And  that  was  not  all;  he  crawled 
out  from  under  the  bed,  walked  across  the  room, 
clattering  his  claws  on  the  floor,  waggling  his 
ears,  and  suddenly  collided  with  a  chair  which 
stood  by  the  side  of  Vasily  Vasilitch's  bed ! 

"  Porfiry  Kapitonitch," — says  Vasily  Vasi- 
htch,  and  in  such  an  indifferent  voice,  you  know, 
—"I  did  n't  know  that  thou  hadst  taken  to  keep- 
ing a  dog.  What  sort  of  an  animal  is  it— a 
setter?" 

831 


THE  DOG 

"  I  have  no  dog,"— said  I,—"  and  I  never  have 
had  one." 

"  Thou  hast  not  indeed!    But  what 's  this?  " 

"What  is  this?"— said  I.—"  See  here  now; 
hght  the  candle  and  thou  wilt  find  out  for  thy- 
self." 

"It  is  n't  a  dog?" 

"  No." 

Vasily  Vasilitch  turned  over  in  bed.—"  But 
thou  art  jesting,  damn  it?  " 

"  No,  I  'm  not  jesting." — I  hear  him  go 
scratch,  scratch  with  a  match,  and  that  thing  does 
not  stop,  but  scratches  its  side.  The  flame  flashed 
up  ...  .  and  basta!  There  was  not  a  trace  of  a 
dog!  Vasily  Vasilitch  stared  at  me— and  I 
stared  at  him. 

"  What  sort  of  a  trick  is  this?  "—said  he. 

"  Why," — said  I,—"  this  is  such  a  trick  that  if 
thou  wert  to  set  Socrates  himself  on  one  side  and 
Frederick  the  Great  on  the  other  even  they 
could  n't  make  head  or  tail  of  it."— And  there- 
upon I  told  him  all  in  detail.  Up  jumped  my 
Vasily  Vasilitch  as  though  he  had  been  singed  I 
He  could  n't  get  into  his  boots. 

"  Horses!  "-he  yelled-"  horses!  " 

I  began  to  argue  with  him,  but  in  vain.  He 
simply  groaned. 

"  I  won't  stay,"— he  shouted,—"  not  a  min- 
ute!—Of  course,  after  this,  thou  art  a  doomed 
man!— Horses!  .  .  .  ." 

332 


THE  DOG 

But  I  prevailed  upon  him.  Only  his  bed  was 
dragged  out  into  another  room — and  night-lights 
were  lighted  everywhere.  In  the  morning,  at  tea, 
he  recovered  his  dignity ;  he  began  to  give  me  ad- 
vice. 

"  Thou  shouldst  try  absenting  thyself  from  the 
house  for  several  days,  Porfiry  Kapitonitch,"  he 
said:  "  perhaps  that  vile  thing  would  leave  thee." 

But  I  must  tell  you  that  he — that  neighbour 
of  mine — had  a  capacious  mind!  he  worked  his 
mother-in-law  so  famously  among  other  things: 
he  palmed  off  a  note  of  hand  on  her;  which  sig- 
nifies that  he  chose  the  most  vulnerable  moment! 
She  became  like  silk:  she  gave  him  a  power  of 
attorney  over  all  her  property — what  more  would 
you  have?  But  that  was  a  great  affair — to  twist 
his  mother-in-law  round  his  finger — was  n't  it, 
hey?  Judge  for  yourselves.  But  he  went  away 
from  me  somewhat  discontented ;  I  had  punished 
him  to  the  extent  of  another  hundred  rubles.  He 
even  swore  at  me:  "  Thou  art  ungrateful," — he 
said,  '*  thou  hast  no  feeling;  "  but  how  was  I  to 
blame  for  that?  Well,  this  is  in  parenthesis — 
but  I  took  his  suggestion  under  consideration. 
That  same  day  I  drove  off  to  town  and  estab- 
lished myself  in  an  inn,  with  an  acquaintance,  an 
old  man  of  the  Old  Ritualist  sect.^ 

He  was  a  worthy  old  man,  although  a  trifle 

1  Those  who  reject  the  official  and  necessary  corrections  made  in 
the  Scriptures  and  Church  service  books  in  the  reign  of  Peter  the 
Great's  father.— -Translator. 

333 


THE  DOG 

harsh,  because  of  loneliness:  his  whole  family 
were  dead.  Only  he  did  not  favour  tobacco  at 
all,^  and  felt  a  great  loathing  for  dogs ;  I  believe, 
for  example,  that  rather  than  admit  a  dog  into 
the  room  he  would  have  rent  himself  in  twain! 
"  For  how  is  it  possible?  "—he  said.  "  There  in 
my  room,  on  the  wall,  the  Sovereign  Lady  herself 
deigns  to  dwell ;  ^  and  shall  a  filthy  dog  thrust  his 
accursed  snout  in  there?  " — That  was  ignorance, 
of  course!  However,  this  is  my  opinion:  if  any 
man  has  been  vouchsafed  wisdom,  let  him  hold 
to  it! 

"  But  you  are  a  great  philosopher,  I  see,"— in- 
terrupted Anton  Stepanitch  again,  with  the  same 
laugh  as  before. 

This  time  Porfiry  Kapitonitch  even  scowled. 

"  What  sort  of  a  philosopher  I  am  no  one 
knows,"— he  said  as  his  moustache  twitched  in  a 
surly  manner:—"  but  I  would  gladly  take  you  as 
a  pupil." 

We  all  fairly  bored  our  eyes  into  Anton  Ste- 
panitch; each  one  of  us  expected  an  arrogant  re- 
tort or  at  least  a  lightning  glance.  .  .  .  But  Mr. 
State  Councillor  altered  his  smile  from  scorn  to 
indifference,  then  yawned,  dangled  his  foot —and 
that  was  all! 

1  The  Old  Ritualists  oppose  tea,  coffee,  and  tobacco,  chiefly,  it  would 
seem,  because  they  are  "newfangled,"  having  come  into  use  after 
the  schism.  Later  on  they  invented  curious  religious  reasons  for 
their  denunciation  of  these  and  other  things. — Translator. 

2 The  holy  picture  {ikdna)  of  the  Mother  of  Christ.— Translator. 

334 


THE  DOG 

So  then,  I  settled  down  at  that  old  man's 
house— [went  on  Porfiry  Kapitonitch] . — He 
assigned  me  a  room  "  for  acquaintance's  "  sake, — 
not  of  the  best;  he  himself  lodged  there  also,  be- 
hind a  partition — and  that  was  all  I  required. 
But  what  tortures  I  did  undergo !  The  chamber 
was  small,  it  was  hot,  stifling,  and  there  were 
flies,  and  such  sticky  ones ;  in  the  corner  was  a  re- 
markably large  case  for  images,  with  ancient  holy 
pictures;  their  garments  were  dim  and  pufl'ed 
out;  the  air  was  fairly  infected  with  olive-oil, 
and  some  sort  of  a  spice  in  addition;  on  the  bed- 
stead were  two  down  beds;  if  you  moved  a  pil- 
low, out  ran  a  cockroach  from  beneath  it.  .  .  I 
drank  an  incredible  amount  of  tea,  out  of  sheer 
tedium — it  was  simply  horrible!  I  got  into  bed; 
it  was  impossible  to  sleep. — And  on  the  other  side 
of  the  partition  my  host  was  sighing  and  grunt- 
ing and  reciting  his  prayers.  I  heard  him  begin 
to  snore— and  very  lightly  and  courteously,  in 
old-fashioned  style.  I  had  long  since  extin- 
guished my  candle — only  the  shrine-lamp  was 
twinkling  in  front  of  the  holy  pictures.  ...  A 
hindrance,  of  course!  So  I  took  and  rose  up 
softly,  in  my  bare  feet :  I  reached  up  to  the  lamp 
and  blew  it  out.  .  .  .  Nothing  happened.— 
"Aha!"  I  thought:  "this  means  that  he  won't 
make  a  fuss  in  the  house  of  strangers."  .  .  . 
But  no  sooner  had  I  lain  down  on  the  bed  than 
the  row  began  again!     The  thing  clawed,  and 

335 


THE  DOG 

scratched  himself  and  flapped  his  ears  .  .  .  o 
well,  just  as  I  wanted  him  to.  Good!  I  lay  there 
and  waited  to  see  what  would  happen.  I  heard 
the  old  man  wake  up. 

"  Master," — said  he, — "  hey  there,  master?  " 

"  What 's  wanted?  "—said  I. 

"  Was  it  thou  who  didst  put  out  the  shrine- 
lamp?" — And  without  awaiting  my  reply,  he 
suddenly  began  to  mumble: 

"  What  's  that?  What  's  that?  A  dog?  A 
dog?    Akh,  thou  damned  Nikonian!  "  ^ 

"  Wait  a  bit,  old  man,"— said  I,—"  before 
thou  cursest;  but  it  would  be  better  for  thee  to 
come  hither  thyself.  Things  deserving  of  won- 
der are  going  on  here," — said  I. 

The  old  man  fussed  about  behind  the  partition 
and  entered  my  room  with  a  candle,  a  slender 
one,  of  yellow  wax ;  and  I  was  amazed  as  I  looked 
at  him!  He  was  all  bristling,  with  shaggy  ears 
and  vicious  eyes  like  those  of  a  polecat;  on  his 
head  was  a  small  skull-cap  of  white  felt ;  his  beard 
reached  to  his  girdle  and  was  white  also;  and  he 
had  on  a  waistcoat  with  brass  buttons  over  his 
shirt,  and  fur  boots  on  his  feet,  and  he  dissemi- 
nated an  odour  of  juniper.  In  that  condition  he 
went  up  to  the  holy  pictures,  crossed  himself 
thrice  with  two  fingers  ^  lighted  the  shrine-lamp, 

1  The  Old  Ritualists'  most  opprobrious  epithet,  designating  a  mem- 
ber of  the  State  Church,  which  accepted  the  emendations  instituted 
by  Patriarch  Nikon  referred  to  in  a  previous  note.— Translator. 

2  One  of  the  hotly  disputed  points  of  difference  between  the  Old 

336 


THE  DOG 

crossed  himself  again,  and  turning  to  me,  merely 
grunted : 

"Explain  thyself!" 

Thereupon,  without  the  least  delay,  I  commu- 
nicated to  him  all  the  circumstances.  The  old 
man  listened  to  all  my  explanations  without  ut- 
tering the  smallest  word;  he  simply  kept  shaking 
his  head.  Then  he  sat  down  on  my  bed,  still 
maintaining  silence.  He  scratched  his  breast,  the 
back  of  his  head,  and  other  places,  and  still  re- 
mained silent. 

"  Well,  Feodul  Ivanitch,"— said  I,  "  what  is 
thy  opinion:  is  this  some  sort  of  visitation  of  the 
Evil  One,  thinkest  thou?  " 

The  old  man  stared  at  me.— "A  pretty  thing 
thou  hast  invented !  A  visitation  of  the  Evil  One, 
forsooth!  'T  would  be  all  right  at  thy  house, 
thou  tobacco-user,— but  't  is  quite  another  thing 
here !  Only  consider  how  many  holy  things  there 
are  here!  And  thou  must  needs  have  a  visita- 
tion of  the  devil!— And  if  it  is  n't  that,  what 
is  it? " 

The  old  man  relapsed  into  silence,  scratched 
himself  again,  and  at  last  he  said,  but  in  a  dull 
sort  of  way,  because  his  moustache  kept  crawl- 
ing into  his  mouth : 

"  Go  thou  to  the  town  of  Byeleff .  There  is 
only  one  man  who  can  help  thee.    And  that  man 

Ritualists  and  the  members  of  the  State  Church  is  in  their  manner  of 
crossing  themselves.  The  latter  use  the  forefinger,  middle  finger,  and 
thumb  joined  at  the  tips.  — Translator. 

337 


THE  DOG 

dwells  in  ByelefF ;  ^  he  is  one  of  our  people.  If 
he  takes  a  fancy  to  help  thee,  that  's  thy  good 
luck;  if  he  does  n't  take  a  fancy, — so  it  must 
remain." 

"  But  how  am  I  to  find  him?  " — said  I. 

"We  can  give  thee  directions," — said  he; — 
"  only  why  dost  thou  call  this  a  visitation  of  the 
devil?  'T  is  a  vision,  or  a  sign;  but  thou  wilt  not 
be  able  to  comprehend  it;  't  is  not  within  thy 
flight.  And  now  lie  down  and  sleep  under 
Christ's  protection,  dear  little  father ;  I  will  fumi- 
gate with  incense;  and  in  the  morning  we  will 
take  counsel  together.  The  morning  is  wiser  than 
the  evening,  thou  knowest." 

Well,  sir,  and  we  did  take  counsel  together 
in  the  morning — only  I  came  near  choking  to 
death  with  that  same  incense.  And  the  old  man 
instructed  me  after  this  wise:  that  when  I  had 
reached  ByelefF  I  was  to  go  to  the  public  square, 
and  in  the  second  shop  on  the  right  inquire  for  a 
certain  Prokhoritch;  and  having  found  Prokho- 
ritch,  I  was  to  hand  him  a  document.  And  the 
whole  document  consisted  of  a  scrap  of  paper, 
on  which  was  written  the  following:  "In  the 
name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the 
Holy  Spirit,  Amen.  To  Sergyei  Prokhoritch 
Perviishin.  Trust  this  man.  Feoduly  Ivano- 
vitch."  And  below:  "  Send  some  cabbages,  for 
God's  sake." 

1  In  the  government  of  Tula,  central  Russia  — Trakslatoe. 

338 


THE  DOG 

I  thanked  the  old  man,  and  without  further 
ado  ordered  my  tarantas  to  be  harnessed,  and  set 
off  for  ByelefF.  For  I  argued  in  this  way:  ad- 
mitting that  my  nocturnal  visitor  did  not  cause 
me  much  grief,  still,  nevertheless,  it  was  not  quite 
decorous  for  a  nobleman  and  an  officer— what  do 
you  think  about  it? 

"  And  did  you  really  go  to  Byeleff  ?  "—whis- 
pered Mr.  FinoplentofF. 

I  did,  straight  to  ByelefF.  I  went  to  the 
square,  and  inquired  in  the  second  shop  on  the 
right  for  Prokhoritch.  "  Is  there  such  a  man?  " 
— I  asked. 

"  There  is,"— I  was  told. 

"  And  where  does  he  live?  " 

"  On  the  Oka,  beyond  the  vegetable-gardens." 

"  In  whose  house?  "  ^ 

"  His  own." 

I  wended  my  way  to  the  Oka,  searched  out  his 
house,  that  is  to  say,  not  actually  a  house,  but  a 
downright  hovel.  I  beheld  a  man  in  a  patched 
blue  overcoat  and  a  tattered  cap,— of  the  petty 
burgher  class,  judging  by  his  appearance,— 
standing  with  his  back  to  me,  and  digging  in 
his  cabbage-garden.— I  went  up  to  him. 

"  Are  you  such  and  such  a  one?  "—said  I. 

1  Formerly,  houses  were  not  numbered,  and  addresses  ran:  "In 
the  house  of  *  *  *  "  (the  proprietor,  man  or  woman),  often  with 
many  complicated  directions  added  to  designate  the  special  house. 
These  ancient  addresses  still  remain,  along  with  the  numbers  or 
alone,  especially  on  many  of  the  houses  in  Moscow,  and  in  country 
towns. — Translator. 

339 


THE  DOG 

He  turned  round, — and  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
such  piercing  eyes  I  have  never  seen  in  all  my  life. 
But  his  whole  face  was  no  bigger  than  one's  fist ; 
his  beard  was  wedge-shaped,  and  his  lips  were 
sunken :  he  was  an  aged  man. 

"  I  am  he,"— he  said.—"  What  do  you  wanta? " 

"Why,  here,"— said  I;— "this  is  what  I 
wanta," — and  I  placed  the  document  in  his  hand. 
He  gazed  at  me  very  intently,  and  said : 

"Please  come  into  the  house;  I  cannot  read 
without  my  spectacles." 

Well,  sir,  he  and  I  went  into  his  kennel— actu- 
ally, a  regular  kennel;  poor,  bare,  crooked;  it 
barely  held  together.  On  the  wall  was  a  holy 
picture  of  ancient  work,^  as  black  as  a  coal ;  only 
the  whites  of  the  eyes  were  fairly  burning  in  the 
faces  of  the  holy  people.  He  took  some  round 
iron  spectacles  from  a  small  table,  placed  them 
on  his  nose,  perused  the  writing,  and  through  his 
spectacles  again  scrutinised  me. 

"  You  have  need  of  me?  " 

"  I  have,"— said  I,—"  that  's  the  fact." 

"  Well," — said  he,  "  if  you  have,  then  make 
your  statement,  and  I  will  listen." 

And  just  imagine;  he  sat  down,  and  pulling  a 
checked  handkerchief  from  his  pocket,  he  spread 
it  out  on  his  knees — and  the  handkerchief  was 
full  of  holes — and  gazed  at  me  as  solemnly  as 

^  Old  Ritualists  will  tolerate  no  others .  Neither  will  they  employ  the 
words  "  buy  "  or  "  sell  "  in  connection  with  these  ikdnas;  they  say 
"  exchange."— Translator. 

340 


THE  DOG 

though  he  had  been  a  senator/  or  some  minister 
or  other;  and  did  not  ask  me  to  sit  down.  And 
what  was  still  more  astonishing,  I  suddenly  felt 
myself  growing  timid,  so  timid  ....  simply,  my 
soul  sank  into  my  heels.  He  pierced  me  through 
and  through  with  his  eyes,  and  that  's  all  there  is 
to  be  said!  But  I  recovered  my  self-possession, 
and  narrated  to  him  my  whole  story.  He  re- 
mained silent  for  a  while,  shrank  together,  mowed 
with  his  lips,  and  then  began  to  interrogate  me, 
still  as  though  he  were  a  senator,  so  majestically 
and  without  haste.  "  What  is  your  name?  "—he 
asked.  "How  old  are  you?  Who  were  your 
parents?  Are  you  a  bachelor  or  married?  "— 
Then  he  began  to  mow  with  his  lips  again, 
frowned,  thrust  out  his  finger  and  said: 

"  Do  reverence  to  the  holy  image  of  the  hon- 
ourable saints  of  Solovetzk,^  Zosim  and  Sav- 
vaty." 

I  made  a  reverence  to  the  earth,  and  did  not 
rise  to  my  feet;  such  awe  and  submission  did  I 
feel  for  that  man  that  I  believe  I  would  have  in- 
stantly done  anything  whatsoever  he  might  have 
ordered  me!  ....  I  see  that  you  are  smiling, 
gentlemen;  but  I  was  in  no  mood  for  laughing 
then,  by  Heaven  I  was  not. 

"  Rise,  sir,"— he  said  at  last.—"  It  is  possible 
to  help  you.    This  has  not  been  sent  to  you  by 

^  The  Senate  in  Russia  is  the  Supreme  Court  of  Appeals,  and  the 
senators  are  appointed,  not  elected. — Translator. 
2  A  famous  monastery  on  an  island  in  the  White  Sea. — Translator. 

341 


THE  DOG 

way  of  punishment,  but  as  a  warning ;  it  signifies 
that  you  are  being  looked  after ;  some  one  is  pray- 
ing earnestly  for  you.  Go  now  to  the  bazaar  and 
buy  yourself  a  bitch,  which  you  must  keep  by 
you  day  and  night,  without  ceasing.  Your  visions 
will  cease,  and  your  dog  will  prove  necessary  to 
you  into  the  bargain." 

A  flash  of  light  seemed  suddenly  to  illuminate 
me ;  how  those  words  did  please  me !  I  made  obei- 
sance to  Prokhoritch,  and  was  on  the  point  of 
departing,  but  remembered  that  it  was  impossible 
for  me  not  to  show  him  my  gratitude;  I  drew  a 
three-ruble  note  from  my  pocket.  But  he  put 
aside  my  hand  and  said  to  me : 

"  Give  it  to  our  chapel,  or  to  the  poor,  for  this 
service  is  gratis." 

Again  I  made  him  an  obeisance,  nearly  to  the 
girdle,  and  immediately  marched  off  to  the  ba- 
zaar. And  fancy,  no  sooner  had  I  begun  to  ap- 
proach the  shops  when  behold,  a  man  in  a  frieze 
cloak  advanced  to  meet  me,  and  under  his  arm  he 
carried  a  setter  bitch,  two  months  old,  with  light- 
brown  hair,  a  white  muzzle,  and  white  fore  paws. 

"  Halt!  "  said  I  to  the  man  in  the  frieze  cloak; 
"  what  will  you  take  for  her?  " 

"  Two  rubles  in  silver." 

"Take  three!" 

The  man  was  astonished,  and  thought  the  gen- 
tleman had  lost  his  mind— but  I  threw  a  bank- 
note in  his  teeth,  seized  the  bitch  in  my  arms,  and 

342 


THE  DOG 

rushed  to  my  tarantas.  The  coachman  harnessed 
up  the  horses  briskly,  and  that  same  evening  I 
was  at  home.  The  dog  sat  on  my  lap  during  the 
whole  journey — and  never  uttered  a  sound;  but 
I  kept  saying  to  her:  "  Tresorushko !  Treso- 
rushko!"  I  immediately  gave  her  food  and 
water,  ordered  straw  to  be  brought,  put  her  to 
bed,  and  dashed  into  bed  mysejf .  I  blew  out  the 
light ;  darkness  reigned. 

"Come  now,  begin!"— said  I.— Silence.— 
"Do  begin,  thou  thus  and  so!"— Not  a  sound. 
It  was  laughable.  I  began  to  take  courage. — 
"  Come  now,  begin,  thou  thus  and  so,  and  't  other 
thing!  "  But  nothing  happened— there  was  a 
complete  lull!  The  only  thing  to  be  heard  was 
the  bitch  breathing  hard. 

"  Filka!  "-I  shouted;-"  Filka!  Come  hither, 
stupid  man!"— He  entered.— "  Dost  thou  hear 
the  dog?" 

"  No,  master,"— said  he,—"  I  don't  hear  any- 
thing,"— and  began  to  laugh. 

"And  thou  wilt  not  hear  it  again  forever! 
Here  's  half  a  ruble  for  thee  for  vodka!  " 

"  Please  let  me  kiss  your  hand," — said  the  fool, 
and  crawled  to  me  in  the  dark.  .  .  .  My  joy  was 
great,  I  can  tell  j^ou ! 

"  And  was  that  the  end  of  it  all?  "—asked  An- 
ton Stepanitch,  no  longer  ironically. 

The  visions  did  cease,  it  is  true — and  there 
were  no  disturbances  of  any  sort — but  wait,  that 

343 


THE  DOG 

was  not  the  end  of  the  whole  matter.  My  Treso- 
rushko  began  to  grow,  and  turned  out  a  cunning 
rogue.  Thick-tailed,  heavy,  flop-eared,  with 
drooping  dewlaps,  she  was  a  regular  "  take-ad- 
vance,"— a  thoroughgoing  good  setter.  And 
moreover,  she  became  greatly  attached  to  me. 
Hunting  is  bad  in  our  parts, — well,  but  as  I  had 
set  up  a  dog  I  had  to  supply  myself  with  a  gun 
also.  I  began  to  roam  about  the  surrounding 
country  with  my  Tresor;  sometimes  I  would 
knock  over  a  hare  (my  heavens,  how  she  did 
course  those  hares ! ) ,  and  sometimes  a  quail  or  a 
duck.  But  the  chief  point  was  that  Tresor  never, 
never  strayed  a  step  away  from  me.  Wherever  I 
went,  there  she  went  also ;  I  even  took  her  to  the 
bath  with  me — truly!  One  of  our  young  gentle- 
women undertook  to  eject  me  from  her  drawing- 
room  on  account  of  Tresor;  but  I  raised  such  a 
row  that  I  smashed  some  of  her  window-panes! 

Well,  sir,  one  day — it  happened  in  summer. 
....  And  I  must  tell  you  that  there  was  such  a 
drought  that  no  one  could  recall  its  like;  the  air 
was  full  of  something  which  was  neither  smoke 
nor  fog ;  there  was  an  odour  of  burning,  and  mist, 
and  the  sun  was  like  a  red-hot  cannon-ball;  and 
the  dust  was  such  that  one  could  not  leave  off 
sneezing!  People  went  about  with  their  mouths 
gaping  open,  just  like  crows. 

It  bored  me  to  sit  at  home  constantly  in  com- 
plete undress,  behind  closed  shutters;  and  by  the 

344 


THE  DOG 

way,  the  heat  was  beginning  to  moderate.  .  .  . 
And  so,  gentlemen,  I  set  off  afoot  to  the  house  of 
one  of  my  neighbours.  This  neighbour  of  mine 
Hved  about  a  verst  from  me,— and  was  really  a 
benevolent  lady.  She  was  still  young  and  bloom- 
ing, and  of  the  most  attractive  exterior;  only  she 
had  a  fickle  disposition.  But  that  is  no  detriment 
in  the  feminine  sex ;  it  even  affords  pleasure.  .  .  . 
So,  then,  I  trudged  to  her  porch— and  that  trip 
seemed  very  salt  to  me!  Well,  I  thought,  Nim- 
fodora  Semyonovna  will  regale  me  with  bilberry- 
water,  and  other  refreshments — and  I  had  al- 
ready grasped  the  door-handle  when,  suddenly, 
around  the  corner  of  the  servants'  cottage  there 
arose  a  trampling  of  feet,  a  squealing  and  shout- 
ing of  small  boys.  ...  I  looked  round.  O  Lord, 
my  God!  Straight  toward  me  was  dashing  a 
huge,  reddish  beast,  which  at  first  sight  I  did  not 
recognise  as  a  dog;  its  jaws  were  gaping,  its  eyes 
were  blood-shot,  its  hair  stood  on  end.  .  .  .  Be- 
fore I  could  take  breath  the  monster  leaped  upon 
the  porch,  elevated  itself  on  its  hind  legs,  and  fell 
straight  on  my  breast.  What  do  you  think  of 
that  situation?  I  was  swooning  with  fright,  and 
could  not  lift  my  arms ;  I  was  completely  stupe- 
fied; ....  all  I  could  see  were  the  white  tusks 
right  at  the  end  of  my  nose,  the  red  tongue  all 
swathed  in  foam..  But  at  that  moment  another 
dark  body  soared  through  the  air  in  front  of  me, 
like  a  ball— it  was  my  darling  Tresor  coming  to 

345 


THE  DOG 

my  rescue ;  and  she  went  at  that  beast's  throat  like 
a  leech !  The  beast  rattled  hoarsely  in  the  throat, 
gnashed  its  teeth,  staggered  back.  .  .  .  With  one 
jerk  I  tore  open  the  door,  and  found  myself  in 
the  anteroom.  I  stood  there,  beside  myself  with 
terror,  threw  my  whole  body  against  the  lock,  and 
listened  to  a  desperate  battle  which  was  in  prog- 
ress on  the  porch.  I  began  to  shout,  to  call  for 
help;  every  one  in  the  house  took  alarm.  Nim- 
f  odor  a  Semyonovna  ran  up  with  hair  unbr  aided; 
voices  clamoured  in  the  courtyard— and  suddenly 
there  came  a  cry:  "  Hold  him,  hold  him,  lock  the 
gate!" 

I  opened  the  door,— just  a  crack,— and  looked. 
The  monster  was  no  longer  on  the  porch.  People 
were  rushing  in  disorder  about  the  courtyard, 
flourishing  their  arms,  picking  up  billets  of  wood 
from  the  ground — just  as  though  they  had  gone 
mad.  "  To  the  village!  It  has  run  to  the  vil- 
lage!" shrieked  shrilly  a  peasant-woman  in  a 
pointed  coronet  head-dress  of  unusual  dimensions, 
thrusting  her  head  through  a  garret-window.  I 
emerged  from  the  house. 

"Where  is  Tresor?  "— said  I.— And  at  that 
moment  I  caught  sight  of  my  saviour.  She  was 
walking  away  from  the  gate,  limping,  all  bitten, 
and  covered  with  blood.  .  . 

"  But  what  was  it,  after  all? " — I  asked  the 
people,  as  they  went  circling  round  the  court- 
yard like  crazy  folk. 

346 


THE  DOG 

"  A  mad  dog!  "—they  answered  me,  "  belong- 
ing to  the  Count;  it  has  been  roving  about  here 
since  yesterday." 

We  had  a  neighbour,  a  Count;  he  had  intro- 
duced some  very  dreadful  dogs  from  over-sea. 
My  knees  gave  way  beneath  me;  I  hastened 
to  the  mirror  and  looked  to  see  whether  I  had  been 
bitten.  No ;  God  be  thanked,  nothing  was  visible ; 
only,  naturally,  my  face  was  all  green ;  but  Nim- 
fodora  Semyonovna  was  lying  on  the  couch,  and 
clucking  like  a  hen.  And  that  was  easily  to  be  un- 
derstood: in  the  fii'st  place,  nerves;  in  the  second 
place,  sensibility.  But  she  came  to  herself,  and 
asked  me  in  a  very  languid  way :  was  I  ahve  ?  I 
told  her  that  I  was,  and  that  Tresor  was  my 
saviour. 

"Akh,"— said  she,— "  what  nobility!  And  I 
suppose  the  mad  dog  smothered  her? " 

"  No,"— said  I,—"  it  did  not  smother  her,  but 
it  wounded  her  seriously." 

"  Akh,"— said  she,—"  in  that  case,  she  must 
be  shot  this  very  moment!  " 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,"— said  I;— "I  won't 
agree  to  that;  I  shall  try  to  cure  her."  .... 

In  the  meanwhile,  Tresor  began  to  scratch  at 
the  door;  I  started  to  open  it  for  her. 

"  Akh,"— cried  she,—"  what  are  you  doing? 
Why,  she  will  bite  us  all  dreadfully!  " 

"  Pardon  me,"— said  I,—"  the  poison  does  not 
take  effect  so  soon." 

347 


THE  DOG 

"  Akh,"— said  she,—"  how  is  that  possible? 
Why,  you  have  gone  out  of  your  mind!  " 

"  Nimfotchka,"— said  I,— "  cahn  thyself;  lis- 
ten to  reason.  ..." 

But  all  at  once  she  began  to  scream:  "  Go  away; 
go  away  this  instant  with  your  disgusting  dog!  " 

"  I  will  go," — said  I. 

"Instantly," — said  she, — "this  very  second! 
Take  thyself  off,  brigand," — said  she,—"  and 
don't  dare  ever  to  show  yourself  in  my  sight 
again.     Thou  mightest  go  mad  thyself!  " 

"  Very  good,  ma'am," — said  I;  "  only  give  me 
an  equipage,  for  I  am  afraid  to  go  home  on  foot 
now." 

She  riveted  her  eyes  on  me.  "  Give,  give  him  a 
calash,  a  carriage,  a  drozhky,  whatever  he  wants, 
— anything,  for  the  sake  of  getting  rid  of  him 
as  quickly  as  possible.  Akh,  what  eyes !  akh,  what 
eyes  he  has !  " — And  with  these  words  she  flew  out 
of  the  room,  dealing  a  maid  who  was  entering 
a  box  on  the  ear, — and  I  heard  her  go  off  into 
another  fit  of  hysterics.— And  you  may  believe 
me  or  not,  gentlemen,  but  from  that  day  forth 
I  broke  oiF  all  acquaintance  with  Nimfodora 
Semyonovna;  and,  taking  all  things  into  mature 
consideration,  I  cannot  but  add  that  for  that  cir- 
cumstance also  I  owe  my  friend  Tresor  a  debt  of 
gratitude  until  I  lie  down  in  my  coffin. 

Well,  sir,  I  ordered  a  calash  to  be  harnessed, 
placed  Tresor  in  it,  and  drove  off  home  with  her. 

348 


THE  DOG 

At  home  I  looked  her  over,  washed  her  wounds, 
and  thought  to  myself:  "  I  '11  take  her  to-morrow, 
as  soon  as  it  is  light,  to  the  wizard  in  Efrem 
County.  Now  this  wizard  was  an  old  peasant, 
a  wonderful  man;  he  would  whisper  over  water 
— but  others  say  that  he  emitted  serpents'  venom 
on  it — and  give  it  to  you  to  drink,  and  your  mal- 
ady would  instantly  disappear.  By  the  way,  I 
thought,  I  '11  get  myself  bled  in  Efremovo;  't  is 
a  good  remedy  for  terror;  only,  of  course,  not 
from  the  arm,  but  from  the  bleeding-vein. 

"  But  where  is  that  place — the  bleeding-vein?  " 
— inquired  FinoplentofF,  with  bashful  curiosity. 

Don't  you  know?  That  spot  on  the  fist  close 
to  the  thumb,  on  which  one  shakes  snufF  from 
the  horn. — Just  here,  see!  'T  is  the  very  best 
place  for  blood-letting;  therefore,  judge  for  your- 
selves ;  from  the  arm  it  will  be  venal  blood,  while 
from  this  spot  it  is  sparkling.  The  doctors  don't 
know  that,  and  don't  understand  it;  how  should 
they,  the  sluggards,  the  dumb  idiots?  Black- 
smiths chiefly  make  use  of  it.  And  what  skil- 
ful fellows  they  are!  They  '11  place  their  chisel 
on  the  spot,  give  it  a  whack  with  their  hammer — 
and  the  deed  is  done!  ....  Well,  sir,  while  I 
was  meditating  in  this  wise,  it  had  grown  entirely 
dark  out  of  doors,  and  it  was  time  to  go  to  sleep. 
I  lay  down  on  my  bed,  and  Tresor,  of  course,  was 
there  also.  But  whether  it  was  because  of  my 
fright  or  of  the  stifling  heat,  or  because  the  fleas 

349 


THE  DOG 

or  my  thoughts  were  bothersome,  at  any  rate,  I 
could  not  get  to  sleep.  Such  distress  fell  upon 
me  as  it  is  impossible  to  describe;  and  I  kept 
drinking  water,  and  opening  the  window,  and 
thrumming  the  "  Kamarynskaya  "  ^  on  the  guitar, 
with  Italian  variations.  ...  In  vain!  I  felt 
impelled  to  leave  the  room, — and  that  's  all  there 
was  to  it.  At  last  I  made  up  my  mind.  I  took  a 
pillow,  a  coverlet,  and  a  sheet,  and  wended  my 
way  across  the  garden  to  the  hay-barn;  well,  and 
there  I  settled  myself.  And  there  things  were 
agreeable  to  me,  gentlemen;  the  night  was  still, 
extremely  still,  only  now  and  then  a  breeze  as 
soft  as  a  woman's  hand  would  blow  across  my 
cheek,  and  it  was  very  cool ;  the  hay  was  fragrant 
as  tea,  the  katydids  were  rasping  in  the  apple- 
trees;  then  suddenly  a  quail  would  emit  its  call — 
and  you  would  feel  that  he  was  taking  his  ease, 
the  scamp,  sitting  in  the  dew  with  his  mate.  .  .  . 
And  the  sky  was  so  magnificent;  the  stars  were 
twinkling,  and  sometimes  a  little  cloud,  as  white 
as  wadding,  would  float  past,  and  even  it  would 
hardly  stir.  .  .  . 

At  this  point  in  the  narrative,  Skvorevitch 
sneezed;  Kinarevitch,  who  never  lagged  behind 
his  comrade  in  anything,  sneezed  also.  Anton 
Stepanitch  cast  a  glance  of  approbation  at  both. 

Well,  sir — [went  on  Porfiry  Kapitonitch] , — 

^  A  vivacious  and  favourite  popular  dance-tune.    It  is  several  centuries 
old,  and  of  interesting  historical  origin.— Translator. 

350 


THE  DOG 

so  I  lay  there,  and  still  I  could  not  get  to  sleep. 
A  fit  of  meditation  had  seized  upon  me;  and  I 
pondered  chiefly  over  the  great  marvel,  how  that 
Prokhoritch  had  rightly  explained  to  me  about 
the  warning — and  why  such  wonders  should  hap- 
pen to  me  in  particular.  ...  I  was  astonished, 
in  fact,  because  I  could  not  understand  it  at  all 
— while  Tresorushko  whimpered  as  she  curled 
herself  up  on  the  hay;  her  wounds  were  paining 
her.  And  I  '11  tell  you  another  thing  that  kept 
me  from  sleeping — you  will  hardly  believe  it;  the 
moon!  It  stood  right  in  front  of  me,  so  round 
and  big  and  yellow  and  flat ;  and  it  seemed  to  me 
as  though  it  were  staring  at  me — by  Heaven  it 
did ;  and  so  arrogantly,  importunately. ...  At  last 
I  stuck  my  tongue  out  at  it,  I  really  did.  Come, 
I  thought,  what  art  thou  so  curious  about?  I 
turned  away  from  it;  but  it  crawled  into  my  ear, 
it  illuminated  the  back  of  my  head,  and  flooded 
me  as  though  with  rain;  I  opened  my  eyes,  and 
what  did  I  see?  It  made  every  blade  of  grass, 
every  wretched  little  blade  in  the  hay,  the 
most  insignificant  spider's  web,  stand  out  dis- 
tinctly! "Well,  look,  then!  "said  I.  There  was 
no  help  for  it.  I  propped  my  head  on  my  hand 
and  began  to  stare  at  it.  But  I  could  not  keep  it 
up ;  if  you  will  believe  it,  my  eyes  began  to  stick 
out  like  a  hare's  and  to  open  very  wide  indeed, 
just  as  though  they  did  not  know  what  sleep  was 
like.     I  think  I  could  have  eaten  up  everything 

351 


THE  DOG 

with  those  same  eyes.  The  gate  of  the  hay-barn 
stood  wide  open ;  I  could  see  for  a  distance  of  five 
versts  out  on  the  plain ;  and  distinctly,  not  in  the 
usual  way  on  a  moonhght  night.  So  I  gazed  and 
gazed,  and  did  not  even  wink.  .  .  .  And  sud- 
denly it  seemed  to  me  as  though  something  were 
waving  about  far,  far  away  ....  exactly  as 
though  things  were  glimmering  indistinctly  be- 
fore my  eyes.  Some  time  elapsed ;  again  a  shadow 
leaped  across  my  vision, — a  little  nearer  now; 
then  again,  still  nearer.  What  is  it?  I  thought. 
Can  it  be  a  hare  ?  No,  I  thought,  it  is  larger  than 
a  hare,  and  its  gait  is  unlike  that  of  a  hare.  I 
continued  to  look,  and  again  the  shadow  showed 
itself,  and  it  was  moving  now  across  the  pasture- 
land  (and  the  pasture-land  was  whitish  from  the 
moonlight)  like  a  very  large  spot;  it  was  plain 
that  it  was  some  sort  of  a  wild  beast — a  fox  or 
a  wolf.  My  heart  contracted  within  me  .... 
but  what  was  I  afraid  of,  after  all?  Are  n't  there 
plenty  of  wild  animals  running  about  the  fields 
by  night?  But  my  curiosity  was  stronger  than 
my  fears;  I  rose  up,  opened  my  eyes  very  wide, 
and  suddenly  turned  cold  all  over.  I  fairly 
froze  rigid  on  the  spot,  as  though  I  had  been 
buried  in  ice  up  to  my  ears ;  and  why?  The  Lord 
only  knows!  And  I  saw  the  shadow  growing 
bigger  and  bigger,  which  meant  that  it  was  mak- 
ing straight  for  the  hay-barn.  .  .  .  And  then  it 
became  apparent  to  me  that  it  really  was  a  large, 

352 


THE  DOG 

big-headed  wild  beast.  ...  It  dashed  onward 
like  a  whirlwind,  like  a  bullet.  .  .  .  Good  heav- 
ens! What  was  it?  Suddenly  it  stopped  short, 
as  though  it  scented  something.  .  .  .  Why, 
it  was  the  mad  dog  I  had  encountered  that  day! 
'T  was  he,  't  was  he !  O  Lord !  And  I  could  not 
stir  a  finger,  I  could  not  shout.  ...  It  ran  to  the 
gate,  glared  about  with  its  eyes,  emitted  a  howl, 
and  dashed  straight  for  me  on  the  hay ! 

But  out  of  the  hay,  like  a  lion,  sprang  my  Tre- 
sor;  and  then  the  struggle  began.  The  two 
chnched  jaw  to  jaw,  and  rolled  over  the  ground 
in  a  ball!  What  took  place  further  I  do  not  re- 
member; all  I  do  remember  is  that  I  flew  head 
over  heels  across  them,  just  as  I  was,  into  the 
garden,  into  the  house,  and  into  mj^  own  bed- 
room! ....  I  almost  dived  under  the  bed — 
there  's  no  use  in  concealing  the  fact.  And  what 
leaps,  what  bounds  I  made  in  the  garden!  You 
would  have  taken  me  for  the  leading  ballerina 
who  dances  before  the  Emperor  Napoleon  on  the 
day  of  his  Angel — and  even  she  could  n't  have 
overtaken  me.  But  when  I  had  recovered  myself 
a  little,  I  immediately  routed  out  the  entire  house- 
hold; I  ordered  them  all  to  arm  themselves,  and 
I  myself  took  a  sword  and  a  revolver.  (I  must 
confess  that  I  had  purchased  that  revolver  after 
the  Emancipation,  in  case  of  need,  you  know — 
only  I  had  hit  upon  such  a  beast  of  a  pedlar  that 
out  of  three  charges  two  inevitably  missed  fire.) 

353 


THE  DOG 

Well,  sir,  I  took  all  this,  and  in  this  guise  we  sal- 
lied forth,  in  a  regular  horde,  with  staves  and 
lanterns,  and  directed  our  footsteps  toward  the 
hay-barn.  We  reached  it  and  called — nothing 
was  to  be  heard;  we  entered  the  barn  at  last. 
.  .  .  .  And  what  did  we  see?  My  poor  Treso- 
rushko  lay  dead,  with  her  throat  slit,  and  that  ac- 
cursed beast  had  vanished  without  leaving  a  trace ! 

Then,  gentlemen,  I  began  to  bleat  like  a  calf, 
and  I  will  say  it  without  shame ;  I  fell  down  on  the 
body  of  my  twofold  rescuer,  so  to  speak,  and 
kissed  her  head  for  a  long  time.  And  there  I 
remained  in  that  attitude  until  my  old  house- 
keeper, Praskovya,  brought  me  to  my  senses  (she 
also  had  run  out  at  the  uproar) . 

"  Why  do  you  grieve  so  over  the  dog,  Porfiry 
Stepanitch?  " — said  she.  "  You  will  surely  catch 
cold,  which  God  forbid!"  (I  was  very  lightly 
clad.)  "And  if  that  dog  lost  her  life  in  saving 
you,  she  ought  to  reckon  it  as  a  great  favour!  " 

Although  I  did  not  agree  with  Praskovya,  I 
went  back  to  the  house.  And  the  mad  dog  was 
shot  on  the  following  day  by  a  soldier  from  the 
garrison.  And  it  must  have  been  that  that  was 
the  end  appointed  by  Fate  to  the  dog,  for  the 
soldier  fired  a  gun  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
although  he  had  a  medal  for  service  in  the  year 
'12.  So  that  is  the  supernatural  occurrence  which 
happened  to  me. 

354 


THE  DOG 

The  narrator  ceased  speaking  and  began  to  fill 
his  pipe.  But  we  all  exchanged  glances  of  sur- 
prise. 

"  But  perhaps  you  lead  a  very  upright  life," 
—began  Mr.  FinoplentofF,— *'  and  so  by  way  of 
reward  .  .  .  .  "  But  at  that  word  he  faltered, 
for  he  saw  that  Porf fry  Kapitonitch's  cheeks  were 
beginning  to  swell  out  and  turn  red,  and  his  eyes 
too  were  beginning  to  pucker  up — evidently  the 
man  was  on  the  point  of  breaking  out.  .  .  . 

"  But  admitting  the  possibility  of  the  super- 
natural, the  possibility  of  its  interference  in 
everyday  life,  so  to  speak," — began  Anton  Ste- 
panitch: — "  then  what  role,  after  this,  must  sound 
sense  play?  " 

None  of  us  found  any  answer,  and,  as  before, 
we  remained  perplexed. 


355 


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